She laughed. I did not. Her smile sharpened, as though my seriousness had become more entertaining rather than less.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“I like to know who I’m disappointing.”
“Amy.”
“Amy.” She tested the name. “I’m Dani.”
I assumed she was a member with a flexible interpretation of communal rules.
“Dani, the treadmill indicates that it is reserved.”
She glanced at the display. “Geraldine’s dramatic.”
I stared at her.
“The treadmill,” she said. “Her name is Geraldine.”
“Why?”
“She looks like a Geraldine.”
“It looks like exercise equipment.”
“Don’t let her hear you.”
The man on treadmill four coughed into his fist, badly concealing a laugh. The machine beside Dani remained offensively empty.
“I could use treadmill seven,” I said, “but then the reservation system becomes meaningless.”
“I agree.”
“You’re the one violating it.”
“I’m agreeing that systems matter. It’s an area of common ground.”
“You’re still running.”
“I’m cooling down.”
The display showed a pace faster than anything I would have considered a cool-down.
“You have an unusual definition of cooling down.”
“You’re evaluating my pace now?”
“I’m observing it.”
“Are you a runner?”
She asked casually, with no indication that she understood how much depended on my reply.
“I’m training for the Lake City Marathon.”
Her foot landed differently. Only once—a slight break in the rhythm—before her attention returned to me.
