I went running for the first time in nearly six weeks yesterday, launching from my stoop south towards downtown. The golden daylight shifted almost immediately to the inky purple shroud of light-polluted nighttime and suddenly I was engaging in the exhilarating and not at all safe act of running alone in the dark.
A pace came easily, which surprised me. I was expecting fiery lungs and poison darts between my ribs but felt almost nothing but the thumping hip hop music piped into my head. All of the lights, all of the lights.
On my way home, I sailed clear past my street and ended up halfway to campus without realizing it. Even after painstakingly cultivating a love of running over the past two years, I can say confidently that this has never happened. I am always acutely aware of how close I am to sitting down.
Our apartment's foyer was a warm fog of ginger and garlic. I found Nick in the kitchen - his laptop is playing last night's Rachel Maddow and balanced precariously on the microwave, while he stands watch over the shiitake soup. He smiles. He is never in a bad mood.