The beautiful redhead is in town, sans man. We meet at Padden & run through the hills to Galbraith. We talk the future of us as athletes. Races to schedule, the half marathon champs to witness, a Phoenix vacation & Boston goals. Inspired by her dedication to her dreams. A lost art - dream development. We run & we market & we pack vegetables & cherries & henna to the lake where all of us lay on a too warm blanket & wade water & stain our skin. I become red's plus one and crash a wedding.
We meet for pre funk at a pizza shop, drink black opals and shots of tequila. Arrive as the bride & groom arrive. We dance & drink & dance & someone eats too many jordan almonds. We dance all the way to the gay club and dance till the bar closes: a sort of community, leaving us bright & flushed & happy. We eat slippery food & every one of us falls asleep hard.
In the morning a group of us girls meet. It's 80 degrees & there's 18 miles in front of us: a tour de Bellingham. Each of them is swift, talented. I play hold on. I sprain an ankle, have to go the bathroom too many times, make all the water stops, tell them to stop asking me questions. I'm that girl. And, I finish the 18, happy that I feel pushed to be better whether because of stubbornness, or that they're inspiring, or both.
We're sore. It feels good to hurt. We eat lunch in the sunshine & say goodbyes. Plan loose vacations, apologize for being shitty to each other in the past. Everyone is growing up. See you at the next wedding. The pastor haunts, "I love and I like you." They're happy. I proclaimed to be in a loud whisper as I was walking to the gay club to dance. Remember when I said that's all we ever needed?
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