I find a black bike in the street. I take it to a bike store because it rattles. I ask myself whether it makes sense, whether I would ride the bike at all, as it is not a racing bike. The bike has a very small mudguard at the back. I'm told a low price in the store. The mechanic removes the saddle and squirts a lot of oil into the large opening. He explains that he is going on a long journey. I listen to him and he asks for my Instagram account. The mechanic's face is covered and I wonder whether he is young or old. We sit on a bed or sofa. I look him up in my phone but I'm not in his contacts. I see his Instagram account and try to copy the address. It's very long and awkward. There's also a triangle under the letters. Since I don't succeed, I take several photos of the address to copy it at home. There is little light and the pictures are underexposed. Finally I see his face. He looks young and has curly hair. He says that some phone numbers are far too expensive to call and I agree. I'm sure everything will be disconnected. He says he's going away for two years. I wonder if he'll even come back. I hold a pair of black shorts in my hands that C. might like. I hand them to her.