At first I thought I was looking for myself—stupid, I know—but what I saw, what nobody else was seeing, it was a pair of cycling glasses, hanging by their elastic band from a small, bare sapling pushing up through the dank brush, way over in the ditch you never ford into, because you know it's a literal dumping ground for the homeless population.
What got me to hit the rewind button, then the pause button, it wasn't as simple as castoff equipment. I've peeled out of I don't know how many sunglasses and gloves and jerseys while riding, because I didn't have time to dispose of them properly, but needed the ounce or two they'd free me of.
What got me to hit the stop button was the color pattern on the elastic band.
It was from a company that had been defunct since my junior year of college.
And these glasses, they weren't for the sun. They were clear. The kind you wear when riding at night, when what you need is a gnat-shield, goggles to keep you from tearing up, to keep the world from blurring away.
And they were ten years old, at least. They had to be.
I ate my turkey from the bag and I kept those clear glasses paused on the screen. Just watching them.