By the roadside, Michael Gallagher's impressive motorcycle was parked.
Molly Walker handed a long work jacket to a frowning Michael from a nearby vendor.
She lowered her head, not daring to look at the large stain on his clothes.
Michael's face was as black as coal; he threw the jacket aside in disgust: "I won't wear it."
"Um..." she stammered, "I'm really sorry. I didn't do it on purpose."
Molly bit her lip, her face full of distress.
It was rare for Michael to take this sort of vehicle out for a spin, so she clearly wasn't "respectful" enough, and he was bound to be angry.
Michael looked at her tense little face, an accumulation of pent-up anger settled in his heart.
He took out an e-cigarette, lazily opening his eyelids. His slender, clean fingers held the cigarette, and the smoke twined around his blue veins.
"What shall we do now?" He pointed to the conspicuous stain on his clothes, a hint of coldness in the corner of his eyes.
