The Law of Attachment

I call it love. Others would call it obsessive.

Illustration by Joseph Lambert

Three and a half years ago, on a chilly November night, I received an early Christmas present: a black, European-style bicycle. I had first spotted it at a bicycle fashion show, which happened to be next door to my apartment, where models wore long, flowing dresses and suits as they pedaled around a cavernous bike shop in the West Village. Not long after, I was home getting ready for bed when my boyfriend called me and said, “Can you come downstairs for a minute?” I didn’t let the fact that I was barefoot and wearing a paper-thin silk robe deter me from taking my new bike for a quick spin down the block.

It was instant love. Even though it was practically winter, I rode the bike everywhere: to Tribeca, where I was teaching; to the pharmacy only a handful of blocks away; and along the Hudson River bike path, where I could see chunks of ice floating atop the water. My boyfriend insisted I park the bike inside every night so it didn’t get stolen. I complied.

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