by Smitty
The girl (later known as Mindy) blowing by, 
is the penultimate humiliation. Not the first. That’d been the blind runner, seeming to putz along with his guide, casually passing my struggling flesh. No, the final thing was the arch cramp, reducing me to a limping skip for the final miles. But by the power of God, Gu, and ibuprofin, I complete the act of self-torture.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She’s the job interviewer a week later. The marathon hasn’t come up. Thank heaven. I still ache, everywhere, as the yoga pants turn to leave the room.
Over her shoulder, smiling: “What was your time?”
—
Thanks, Darleen!