The impact of my shoe’s soles shoot up my legs until my knees ache, my thighs burn, and I’m as far away as possible from my thoughts.
A phone call interrupts Easton’s musical chorus, and I press on the knob on my headphones to answer with mostly breath, “Yeah?”
“Good, you’re awake.”
“I’m always awake, Ash.” I round the corner of my block, see the entrance to my apartment complex, and decide to run past it and take another city lap. “Question is, how are you awake?”
“Can’t sleep. Thinking too much about the restaurant space I showed you yesterday.”
“Told you then,” I say after a big inhale. “And I’ll tell ya now. It’s a good idea. Open your pastry display.”
“I said a fuckin’ restaurant.”
“Bakery.”
“Restaurant.”
“Cream puff shop.”
“Fuck you. I need to round up the team, since your opinion means shit without their consensus. Really hash it out. You free for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Monday? Yeah, man. Season’s over.”
“Awesome. Gonna see if the rest of the crew are around, too. I’ll text you the time. See ya then.”
Ash hangs up, and Easton’s naturally soothing voice kicks back in. I use it as a balm and refuse to feel weird about it, since his lyrics help me regulate the emotions clanging around in my chest.
Astor is part also of Ash’s crew round-up. She’ll likely be there, too, tomorrow night, if she decides to free herself from the bonds of her career. Her and her sorry ballsack of a fiancé, Mike.
I slow my steps, encouraging my heartbeat to fall into a regular rhythm. Lifting up my shirt, I wipe sweat off my face.
Whistles sound from across the street, and I notice it’s from construction guys, the only other people awake and running their jackhammers on this fine winter morning. I flutter them the bird.
Every time I see Astor, I have to forget the one time she went supple in my hands, bowed to my will, and was ready to do anything I asked. How rock hard I’d gone, and, if I ever thought about it in front of her, how bone solid I’d go again.
Fuck, and I thought making it to the Super Bowl was tough.
1