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cross-eyes – it just spells fragility, sex, and physical attraction. God knows why! I notice that my heart is beating faster than usual. I swallow again.
    He crosses his legs and turns as far towards me as the cramped cabin will allow. His boots are
very
shiny. “Alors?” he prompts. –
“So?”
    I realise that I haven’t spoken for a while and that my heart is actually pounding and my dick is stirring. Lucky I have such thick motorcycle gear on otherwise he’d see by now. I cross my own legs awayfrom him and swallow hard and open my mouth, but I can’t really think of anything to say. “Yes,” I murmur. I clear my throat. “English,” I say, a little too loudly.
    â€œNice boots,” Ricardo says. “And I like your…
Alpine Star –
what do you call this?
Combinaison?”
    â€œErm, bike leathers,” I say. “Or one-piece. You need it in this weather.”
    Ricardo nods. “I used to have a bike too,” he says. “I had all the same thing… these boots and an Alpine Star coat like yours.”
    I nod.
    â€œBut I never use it, my girlfriend didn’t like… so I sell it.”
    I nod, registering the word
girlfriend
and trying not to let any disappointment show.
    â€œSo what are you doing up
here?”
he asks.
    â€œOh, I went to visit a gîte,” I say.
    â€œA
gîte?”
he says.
    â€œIt’s like a small hotel, or a big bed and breakfast. I’m buying it with my… partner.” I point up the hill. “Up there.” I kick myself for saying
partner
– but I’m enjoying the heterosexual chumminess; I don’t want any barriers going up, and ironically, considering their status as the ultimate gay fantasy, French fireman are renowned for being macho,
and
homophobic.
    Ricardo nods. “Yes, but up there?” he asks doubtfully. “It’s very isolated.”
    I nod. “Yeah,” I say nodding and goggling my eyes to show just how much that isolation is starting to play on my mind. “And you?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”
    Ricardo laughs and switches to French. “Getting bored mostly,” he tells me.
    â€œWhy are you here? In case of accidents?” I ask.
    He nods. “Just in case. It’s a legal requirement. But nothing ever happens, so I listen to the radio, I chat to people, I practice my English …” He adds an amiable wink at the end. “I like your leathers,” hesays again. “They’re very nice. I miss my bike.”
    I frown at him. Some deep down instinct tells me that he’s hitting on me. And then, all available evidence tells me that he really
isn’t
.
“Do straight men have leather fetishes?”
I wonder.
    He sighs and looks out of the windscreen. His radio crackles indecipherably.
    â€œThey’re starting,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “Shall we go watch?”
    I shrug. “Why not?”
    As we walk down the hill, I lose my footing in the snow and Ricardo grabs my elbow and steadies me. I smile at him in thanks and he winks, making me blush. At the roadside we join the policeman and the steward and three other people who have appeared on the opposite side of the road, I’m not sure where from.
    â€œI like these races better,” Ricardo says, peering down the hill towards Guillaumes. “The vintage ones.”
    I nod. “Oh, it’s old cars? Classic cars?” I say. “Cool!” The air is cold. I can see my breath rising, but the sun is warm and heats the front of my bike gear like a solar panel. “Are you French?” I ask.
    Ricardo tips his head sideways. “Why?” he asks.
    I shrug. “The name, I guess… Sounds kind of Italian. And something about your accent.”
    He smiles broadly. He has one of the widest smiles I have ever seen. “I’m Colombian,” he says. “Well,