“What if you stopped at mile twenty-two again?”
My body reacted. Heat. Tight chest. The office remained. Plant. Window. Carpet. Blue notebook. My hands.
“I would hate it.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would your life continue?”
“Yes.”
“Would you still be a coach?”
“Yes.”
“Would you still be loved?”
Gloria. Lola. Rose, eventually. Amy, perhaps from a distance.
“Yes.”
“Then the race is not a verdict.”
Familiar. Everyone had been telling me. Belief arrived more slowly than information.
“No,” I said.
“What is it?”
“An attempt.”
Third attempt. The title had always sounded like pressure. Maybe it could sound like fact.
Gloria confronted me Friday night. She did not schedule it. She arrived at my apartment with Lola, takeout, and the expression she used when school administrators were about to discover policy violations. Lola went directly to the refrigerator to inspect her drawings. Gloria put the food on the counter.
“Are you running?”
“I run regularly.”
“The marathon.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Lie.”
Gloria’s hand flattened on the takeout bag. The paper crackled in the quiet kitchen.
“I have not decided whether to keep the entry.”
“You want to.”
“Yes.”
“You’re afraid to say that because wanting became dangerous.”
I stared.
