7C breaks eye contact first, glances down and notices 16D’s Turkey Trot shirt crumpled on top. Looking back up, observes aloud, “I see you’re still running.” 16D’s lips had been parted to speak, but snap shut with a puff of air, erasing whatever conventional platitude had been there. Instead replies, “Yeah, getting ready for the Cinco de Miler. Five miles you know, not a 5K,” but trails off, remembering too late that was the last time they had run together.
Insult now added to old injury, 7C recalls the painful Achilles heel that ended it all. Silence limps along with them through the narrow hall to the laundry room. 16D lags behind allowing 7C to have the first pick of the washers, relieved the Big Boy double wasn't one of them.
“It took months of therapy, you know,” 7C says quietly, “getting over it.” A pause to drop in five quarters, “I don’t think it will ever be quite the same,” adding detergent and bleach to the dispenser, sliding it closed, selects whites and presses start. The Big Boy is already shifting from pre-wash to the main cycle. “Hmmm,” 16D concedes while setting the iPhone timer for 30 minutes, “it can take a long time.”
Starting to edge for the door, 16D stops and asks, “Do you miss it? The running I mean,” and turns a little pink for the second time. 7C considers. “No, not really, I never really liked the running. It was always a slog. But I do sometimes miss how I felt after. Riding the glow while catching my breath. Feeling my heart beat slow down and my pulse recover.” With a little laugh, smiles and shrugs, “I haven’t found anything that quite compares, yet,” and moves on to the colors.
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