Heather's bicycle wouldn't always work.

There were mornings when Heather would come down in the cellar and find her red bicycle with a flat tire, a sprung spoke, bent handlebars ... or her brakes would simply fail at the next curve on the way to her work.

That particular curve was always problematic at best anyway.

On its right side hanging willows and bright golden bell bushes crawled over the white fences with all the unstoppable might of nature's power, thus blocking the view for cars coming from the south.

On its left side tall chestnut trees and majestic copper beeches that reached towards the sky made sure the traveller could not see what was approaching towards him if he came from the north.

More than once she had had to turn sharply and end up in the golden bell bushes due to a car she had missed behind the richness of nature.

Then again, there were mornings when Heather's bicycle actually did work and she would encounter no noticeable problems along the road.

Those were usually the mornings when her boss would use most of his time yelling at her.

This morning was not one of those.

This morning her bicycle didn't work.

This morning she had to walk.

Not that it mattered much. She was in good time and this way she could avoid the unpleasant curve.

Being late would not be a reason for her boss to jump at her.

Yesterday the reason was his own failing memory.

Heather's boss was a tiny, insignificant man with almost no hair left and spectacles always left on the top of his forehead where they were of no use whatsoever. He was shorter than Heather which meant that he could not use his size as intimidating effect and so he yelled instead. When he walked, he walked a lot like Groucho Marx, close to the ground with long strides.

Of course, she had had dreams. Dreams about leaving her job, finding another. But best of all, she had had dreams about yelling right back at him, threatening him the way he did her.

Of course, she never would.

She used to think that leaving work to go home was the best time of the day. However, at home there was nothing but solitude and silence and the fear to face him the next day.

No, the best time of the day, she decided, was when she encountered the salmon coloured autumn shirt.

Of course, it wasn't just a shirt.

There was a person inside.

And this person knew the value and beauty of the shirt.

She wore it every day for everybody to see, the shirt flowing behind her in the wind like a cape of autumn leaves. Heather was reminded of Nike in the Museum of Antique Sculptures. She had been there once, feeling small and insignificant in the midst of all the magnificent sculptures and the serene faces of imposing Greek and Roman gods.

She had wanted to leave as quickly as possible - until she saw her!

Nike!

Nike had made her stay. Nike had no piercing eyes or imposing facial expression. In her mind Heather could put her own head on that severed throat and picture herself flying over the clouds, looking down on the world with all its blue and green colours.

And so the woman in the shirt looked like Nike herself with her wings unfolded either about to lift off or having just come down, the wind forcing her feathers to bend backwards and her peplos to cling to her body like glue.

Beautiful.

Heather could imagine herself in that shirt. And she did. Rather often, actually, she would sit daydreaming about how she would one day wear the shirt, pass people on the street on a functional bike and outshine everyone else. Shine in her shirt.

The beautiful salmon coloured shirt with the exquisite pattern of rich auburn shades, dotted with a touch of leaf green here and there to accentuate the creamy autumn colours.

If she had a shirt like that she would cherish it as a treasure.

She idly wondered when the woman in the shirt took time to wash it. She was always wearing it, biking with it proudly to remind people she met that she still had it. Had the most beautiful shirt in the world.

The shirt would pass her every day on her way to work and it would pass her again leaving work.

This morning was no exception. Due to her disabled bike Heather had only got as far as to the baker when the shirt whirled past her. She almost turned to smell it. It occurred to her that such marvellous colours would have a scent. A scent of nature, beauty and freedom.

And she did catch a scent ... a perfume.

Anger rose slowly in Heather. The person who occupied the shirt was ruining it with artificial odours. Revolting! What was she thinking?

Heather walked on. Still somewhat angry. She would have to simmer down before she got to work. Being upset at work would not do. It would give her boss an excuse to yell at her.

As it was, her boss did yell at her. Not because she felt upset, not because she was late, not because she had made a mistake.

He just yelled without any obvious reason.

When Heather walked home that day, rage fumed inside her. He had had absolutely no reason to yell at her today. None!

This was not unusual, but today - for some reason - it upset Heather even more.

As she approached the dangerous curve with the beautiful bushes she simmered down considerably. She would find a way. She would get another job. She would show her boss that she was clever, that he had no reason to yell at her.

A familiar flash of sated colours flickered at the next distant corner. The shirt! The shirt was approaching the curve as it probably had so many times before. Only this time Heather was at the curve too. She had left work a little later today, tidying up some files.

To make sure he would have no valid reason to yell at her the next day.

Heather blinked as the shirt increased in volume as it approached. Its contents looked indifferent. As though she didn't give a damn that she had the most beautiful shirt in the world. Perhaps she didn't have to be humble - perhaps she was successful and rich and could have any shirt she wanted.

Yes, that was it.

Perhaps, if the shirt was dirty she wouldn't want to have it any more. She would throw it out and buy a new one, regardless that it could be cleaned. She never cleaned it anyway.

Heather never heard the approaching car. Perhaps Heather did hear the approaching car. There was a mud puddle on the side walk of the curve. The shirt could get dirty there. And Heather would stand right next to her when she discovered she could no longer use the shirt.

The car came closer, not reducing speed noticeably. Young people always thought they could handle the curve in high speed.

Somehow Heather's bag got entangled in the bike's wheels. Somehow the car didn't see the biker lose control over her bicycle and turn sharply, right into his driving path.

As the bright red colour spread to cover the black asphalt, Heather's only thought was to save the shirt. She could clean off the mud and the dust, but the red colour would be difficult.

As the car proceeded to torpedo one of the tall copper beeches, Heather went to the fallen shirt and undressed the woman gently. She didn't resist. She lay completely still, letting Heather take her shirt. It was okay, then. She could take it; evidently the owner approved.

Heather went home, humming. For once in her life feeling completely at peace. Everything would be alright now. She had done a good job today and her boss wouldn't yell at her tomorrow. On Saturday she would fix the flat tire and start biking again.

As she passed the blooming magnolias in the driveway to her flat she absentmindedly picked one with a very short stem and pressed it against the shirt.

Perfect. A perfect match.

Now, all she had to do was to let the shirt soak and get clean. The red blotch might be a little complicated to remove, but at least she had managed to save it before the spot spread even more.

Safely back in her den, she put the shirt carefully in water with nothing but pure soap. Better let it soak for a while than use some fancy soap that would harm the fabric, she thought.

As she sat in her window sill to watch life outside, she heard the searing sound of an ambulance, cutting through silence like a razor blade. She winced imperceptibly. Someone must have been hurt.

She sighed audibly, her shoulders heaving and dropping in one swift movement.

Such a meaningless and violent world.