Mile 0: Lori.
Lori slings out the bait: “It’s time for a run! Lace up those PF Flyers and get out there, man! The world (OK *I*) needs another running post!” This challenge comes from a writer, no, a professional Writer. I do wonder, did she send the text from the Stop & Shop counter while flipping through The Enquirer?
She’s a blogger acquaintance. We’ve never met. A lover of Dogs. A writer. A reader. A traveler. An Ivy Leaguer, stealthily unadvertised – someone who you would underestimate – the kindness overpowering. Would I recognize her if she walked by me in Grand Central Station? Is she tall or short? Why does she follow along? Rubbernecking syndrome?
She baits me, I jump.
Could I be that simple?
Am I that shallow? Or is it “Callow?”
I can feel the weight of her eyes, her mind on these words – this sentence separator, whatever you call it – a Big Dash, a Double Wide Dash, A Long Dash. But she’ll know. She’ll whisper, “It’s an x Dave.”
Pavlov’s hand is stretched, reaching. I stand in her shadow.
It’s ‘Callow.’ (Should it be a double quotation mark? A single? Should it be inside or outside the period? The fullness of her weight, too much.)
I walk out the door.
I run. Continue reading “Running. Running Hot.”