Mike knew that wasn’t his greatest session for ‘100’, ever. But he didn’t need it to be. He just needed to survive, which he did. Once home, he re-heated the other half, or 65-or-so percent remaining, of the burrito from the night before. Once done, he couldn’t let himself go to sleep. “I need to write, I need to finish this book, tell her story,” he thought. “She’s more alive to me now than she’s ever been,” he wrote in his semester’s Comp Book. So he kept writing. Vignettes. Certain moments in her day, objects, what was at her desk, in her apartment, in her bag; the magazines on wine, winemaking, the wish list, tasting notes, the “just-dream” notes– and extension of the wish list. How she approached her desk, what she thought when doing so, between 8 and 8:30AM.
Wind outside. How would that affect his run up the Fountaingrove hills? Still, he saw the running as an extension of writing effort. So, even though he was still in recover from his cold, bug, whatever.. he’d be there with the group. No question. He knew he wouldn’t be as fast as he was for the past few runs, at the Cardinal Newman track. But he didn’t need to be. He just needed to be outside, running. And he would be ready for that half-marathon, run it, just as he would finish the term’s novel.
Last Ginger Ale sip. What did she drink at her desk? Besides coffee… Good question. He thought, maybe.. Diet Coke. Or sparkling water, like he did on night he wasn’t having wine with his writing. He didn’t need to know just now. But soon, yes. On Mondays, she had sales meetings, and a social media meeting which she only thought was time disposal at its most visible climb.