Prompt: morning run
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I woke up late. I had slept the night at my sister’s place, two states west to California, and I don’t sleep well away from home. Molly had a pullout couch that she turned into my bed. I got the second best sheets, blankets, and pillows. The mattress was thin. Less than four inches thick. All of it made me wake up late.
It didn’t matter though. It couldn’t matter. Nine-thirty in California is seven A.M. in Albuquerque. For me.
I kicked the stripped blankets down and stretched my back; everything felt out of place. “Molly?” I said.
The first floor was quiet. My sister lived there alone with her boy, Hamnet. Weird name. Weird boy. Anyway, Molly quit her job after her husband died – there’s big money in death I guess – and then became a full time mom. Hamnet had a lot of special classes he attended at the time and Molly wanted to be with him full time.
They must be out. I slid off the couch-bed and slapped my bare feet across the cold tile into the guest bathroom. The light was loud and too bright; I squinted at the face in the mirror.
“Ugh,” I said.
After I washed up, I went into the kitchen and picked a bite out of a croissant. I don’t need to run today. I can go a few days without training. The marathon isn’t important anyway. But that wasn’t right. The marathon was important. It was the seminal moment in my running career. I’d never been in better shape. I’d never felt so old. Fifty-two. Fifty-two.
I had to run. I dropped the croissant and headed for the black leather bag beside the couch. I pulled out black shorts and a black sleeveless top. They were dry, clean, unused since I came to California, since I couldn’t sleep; since I wished I never left.
I stuffed myself into the gear and knelt before the front door tying my shoes. “This is your race Robin,” I said. “This is yours.” Then I was off: out of the door, down the street, and into the hills.
