"The girls would love it if you came to one of our summer practices," the email said. "Mondays and Thursdays at 6:30. See you at the Wall!"
Her guilt won over her desire to languish in the heat of her room. Last year, as senior captain, she attended every summer practice session – calling the girls who didn’t show up, encouraging those who did to finish strong. A year later, she was embarrassed by an outright enthusiasm for anything – the only thing she learned during her first year of college.
The air still held a damp smirk of humidity as she jumped down the front steps, struggling to wrestle her hair into an elastic. Jogging now, she dodged the tangled fingers of oak tree roots as they broke through the concrete.
She could not remember how many steps it was from here to the school – was it 64? 59 if she went quickly? - so she counted as she ran, her habitual obsession. This was why she got as close as she did, why she did not notice that the low concrete wall where the runners met for practice held just one figure.
Her head flipped up just within range of where he would recognize her. To continue towards him or flee? Both held the potential to damage his opinion of her, but only one would allow her to determine that he was not a fantasy that her mind embellished over this past year. Each step towards him was harder than the last, as though they were magnetic poles forced to touch.
He spoke before she did.
“I guess you didn’t get it either?” he laughed. “Apparently he texts them all now to tell them practice was cancelled.”
“Ha,” she said vacantly.
“Your hair is longer,” he said.
His painful attempts at conversation filled her with nostalgia.
“Like a California girl,” he continued.
Her mind flashed with an image of his arm around a blond surfer.
“Do you hang out with a lot of California girls?” she said mockingly, stepping closer.
The immaturity and newness of flirtation felt foolish, given the images so clear in her mind’s eye. You once knew the sensation of me on tiptoes, she thought. I’ve felt the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
They stood in awkward silence, as the dry heat rustled through them. What would they have done a year ago, she wondered? Go out for ice cream after practice, laughing as it dripped onto sweaty hands? Get tangled in the backseat of his car, to the whine of his ancient air conditioner?
“Want to go for a run?” he finally asked.
They began, as he carefully slowed his steps to match hers, periodically turning his head, as though to reassure himself that she was still there. The calculated separation of their bodies made her wonder - had the space between them ever been conquered? Was each memory of closeness the result of a skewed angle, a clever trick her mind pulled? As though to answer, his hand grazed her arm at the corner, guiding her elbow around a street sign. Yes, her skin reassured her, prickling with recognition at the feel of his hand. This is a sensation I once knew. And so they started again.
Her guilt won over her desire to languish in the heat of her room. Last year, as senior captain, she attended every summer practice session – calling the girls who didn’t show up, encouraging those who did to finish strong. A year later, she was embarrassed by an outright enthusiasm for anything – the only thing she learned during her first year of college.
The air still held a damp smirk of humidity as she jumped down the front steps, struggling to wrestle her hair into an elastic. Jogging now, she dodged the tangled fingers of oak tree roots as they broke through the concrete.
She could not remember how many steps it was from here to the school – was it 64? 59 if she went quickly? - so she counted as she ran, her habitual obsession. This was why she got as close as she did, why she did not notice that the low concrete wall where the runners met for practice held just one figure.
Her head flipped up just within range of where he would recognize her. To continue towards him or flee? Both held the potential to damage his opinion of her, but only one would allow her to determine that he was not a fantasy that her mind embellished over this past year. Each step towards him was harder than the last, as though they were magnetic poles forced to touch.
He spoke before she did.
“I guess you didn’t get it either?” he laughed. “Apparently he texts them all now to tell them practice was cancelled.”
“Ha,” she said vacantly.
“Your hair is longer,” he said.
His painful attempts at conversation filled her with nostalgia.
“Like a California girl,” he continued.
Her mind flashed with an image of his arm around a blond surfer.
“Do you hang out with a lot of California girls?” she said mockingly, stepping closer.
The immaturity and newness of flirtation felt foolish, given the images so clear in her mind’s eye. You once knew the sensation of me on tiptoes, she thought. I’ve felt the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
They stood in awkward silence, as the dry heat rustled through them. What would they have done a year ago, she wondered? Go out for ice cream after practice, laughing as it dripped onto sweaty hands? Get tangled in the backseat of his car, to the whine of his ancient air conditioner?
“Want to go for a run?” he finally asked.
They began, as he carefully slowed his steps to match hers, periodically turning his head, as though to reassure himself that she was still there. The calculated separation of their bodies made her wonder - had the space between them ever been conquered? Was each memory of closeness the result of a skewed angle, a clever trick her mind pulled? As though to answer, his hand grazed her arm at the corner, guiding her elbow around a street sign. Yes, her skin reassured her, prickling with recognition at the feel of his hand. This is a sensation I once knew. And so they started again.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!