![]() ![]() I don’t even think to try- it will be years before I realize the oddness of that- and no one offers to help me. It’s August and the sky is dark from the storm. The gym guy insists it’s not necessary, but Or calls. He looks like a pirate and says he’s going to call. He stands over me now in a tank top with a bandana tied low across his forehead. We’d planned to run together along the country roads that morning, but a crack of thunder had sent us to the gym instead. I’ve seen her at these conferences over the last couple of years, and we’ve shared meals, but that’s all. I’m at a graduate student conference in Stowe, Vermont, a town wedged deep in the valley between the Green Mountains and the Worcester Range. He bends at the waist and wags the bottle over my face for me to take it. “A banana,” I tell him, and he nods as though he suspected as much. He wants to know if I’ve had any breakfast. He is tall and waxy with a bird face and dark hair that’s more thin than thinning. ![]() The hotel gym guy comes with orange Gatorade. “Jessica, it’s Ilana.” She says it the Canadian way, with a flat first a. ![]() Someone is holding my head at the temples. My back is flat against the ground, and so are the soles of my feet, and my knees are up and swaying. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |