Butterfly Janis & Alice

SHE WROTE

632

The second installment of an original, never-before-seen story by our very own Janis.

On Tuesday afternoon, Rick called.  "Babe, I'm coming up to the club to see you tonight."
  "That's fine, but if you get loaded, you're not coming over to the apartment later.  I'm tired of you using my bedroom as a drunk tank."
  "That's great, honey.  Really nice.  I bet you tell all your friends I'm a big drunken asshole."
  I laughed.  "Only because you are!"
  "You know, you're really rude to me.  I don't know why you bother to see me if you hate me as much as you seem to."  Rick was overly dramatic-I didn't hate him at all.  I found him attractively strong and simple in the best way a man can be.  On occasion I even found him funny and charming.  I just didn't love him.  I knew it was wrong, but I held Rick because he lessened the ache;  it dulled into a quiet mumble instead of the pumping bass it had been without him.  I spent every night in his arms, telling him that I loved him and I belonged to him, and I knew that it was another mistake.  I did it anyway.  The soap opera declarations of love were just something I had to deal with until I was through with him.
  After I had finished fighting with my knight-in-rusted-armour, I went into my bedroom to look for my running shoes.  They were hidden under a pile of laundry that had become a permanent fixture in the decor of my budouir, which I liked to think of as "white trash chic", with its beaded curtain, beer posters, and a couple of really good Van Gogh prints.  I finally found the shoes, threw them on and trotted down two flights of stairs to begin my run.
  My daily run was the highlight to my beer-soaked existence.  All that remained of a promising athletic career was my ability to run two consecutive six minute miles.  As I broke into a jog in the parking lot, I tossed a wave at the man who walked his cocker spaniel every day.  Every once in a while, the dumb dog left me a present on the stairs.  I guessed pooper scoopers were too much of a bother.  My pet owning friend shouted a welcome as I passed.
  "Morning, pretty girl!  Did you catch him yet?"
  I smiled, confused at the question.  "What?"
  "You run so hard, I figured you must be chasing a man!"
  I gave him my best sweet-young-thing impression and fired back, "No way-they're all chasing me!"  I ran on.  It felt good to be moving forward.  Scholarships and awards were foggy stories told during happy hour now, and no one in my home town remembered who won state in '93.  But I didn't care.  I had only ever run to be happy.  I was disciplined on the road, clean and strong and good.  The dirt trail had no idea of the potential I had wasted, and no other runner ever seemed to notice that I did not own a house and a husband.  There was a thirty-something jogger I bumped into about once a week, always in the same blue shorts.  We would pass each other, sweat-stained, struggling, and know as we tossed each other a wave that others could not understand what we loved about the road.  It made us friends.
  I had the sidewalks to myself this time, and it was a clean, sweet run.  I jogged back into the parking lot and noticed the dog walker was gone.  A sorority girl talked heatedly into a cell phone as she sat in the middle of the stairway.  I came to a stop in front of her car and leaned over, hands on my knees and face tingling as cold sweat ran over my hot skin.
  A car pulled up and Laney yelled, "Attica!  What's wrong?"  She jumped out and clunked over in her favorite garage-sale clogs, carrying a plastic bag filled with cigarettes, milk, and other convenience store essentials.
  "What?  Oh, I'm fine.  I just finished running a couple miles and I'm trying to cool down.  Do you want to go swimming with me?  There's not too many people at the pool today."
  "I love it!  Let's go.  I just have to put this stuff up and put on my swimsuit."  She handed me the cigarettes and a carton of orange juice to lighten her load and we trudged past the Tri Delt and up our two flights of stairs.  She turned halfway up and thought out loud, "Did I lock the door this morning when I left?"
  "Um, I can't remember.  I didn't lock it when I went running, though.  Is that bad?"
  "I guess not," she tossed back as she dropped the bags in the kitchen and started stripping down to change.  "I can't really gripe at you for not locking it if I did the same thing.  Besides, if you carried your keys you'd have to wear one of those stupid fanny packs or something when you work out."  I laughed and pulled up my suit as I walked into her room.  She finished tugging on her swimsuit bottoms and I grabbed some sandals from her closet.
  Down at the pool, we staked out a couple of ratty deck chairs and jumped in the pool.  The water was cool and empty.  The usual karaoke-singing water volleyball players must have been busy at work, and there were no chapped little kids to flavor up the pool water with bodily functions, either.  It was a good day.

---to be continued---

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