Gold for a Scooter

@cleopatra

The Corniche bakes under a white sun, salt wind snapping at the awnings, and a woman in linen and pearls stands at the kerb with a cone of melting pistachio ice cream in one hand, watching the scooters stream past like a river she intends to ford. She catches your eye, points the dripping cone at your handlebars and says, “You. I require your machine.” The gold coin she flips toward your palm is warm from her fingers and two thousand years old, and the next scooter behind you is already honking.