The man made a beeline for me.
I, and a few authors, had just finished leading a discussion about the importance of the voices of “midlife” writers.
This particular writer, who had been in the audience, almost seem dazed–eyes glassy, lips parted as if what he needed to verbalize hadn’t fully formed yet and was resting between them.
This is a rare morning of solitude. Sitting in the gray light, I feel the damp air sift through the screen door behind me as the smell of rain lays itself across the skin of my bare neck and right shoulder.
I struggle with the “that’s it” part. I want to race myself and win. I want to master the incline like I have the writer thighs of Ernest Hemingway.