“If you were any more subtle, Gilchrist,” I say, wiping my face with my arm, “you’d be mistaken for a blow torch.”
Amy touches the toes of her Nikes, a feat I haven’t managed in years. Dressed in short shorts, a T-shirt that advertises a 10K race in Hot Springs, and spotless shoes, she looks damn good.
“You looked like you were chasing that blonde,” she says, nodding with her chin toward the east end of the track.
“But she was too fast for you.”
I climb the concrete steps and collapse on the first row beside her.
“Everybody’s too fast for me,” I say, too tired to lie.
“You need some water,” she says handing me the plastic container beside her.
“And your hair looks like it’s been electrocuted.”
Instinctively, I feel my head. My hair is mashed up on the sides and I smooth it down. My bald spot feels like the size of a crater on the moon. I must look like a jogger from hell. No wonder the blonde speeded up.
“Gilchrist, how have I been coping without you?” I say, taking a swig of water from the blue jug. If she is worried about germs, she shouldn’t have offered.
“Obviously not very well,” she says humorously, her eyes on the runners passing in front of us.
“I’ve been waiting for years for the opportunity to straighten you out, but you’ve never called me.”
I cut my eyes at her to see if she is serious. Amy is the kind of woman who is so likable and friendly she seems as if she is flirting with every man within ten yards of her.