What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Alphonse had cornered her outside her apartment and he wasn’t taking no for an answer this time and this time he had a knife.

Margret had an armful of groceries and a can of pepper spray that was submerged somewhere in the recesses of her purse.

So she threw down her bags and ran wild, like an unbroken horse, her heels flying off her feet.

Alphonse was lean and long and gave chase eagerly, the knife close behind, gnashing at the nape of her neck—trailing just beyond the tips of her hair.

Margaret was winded and panicked and she tried to think hard—she tried to remember what her track coach had told her years ago about running.  

How running had nothing to do about escaping or winning or getting somewhere—how running was about running.

So Margaret ran until her breath came back, until her pulse slowed, until she could never forget how to—and she continued to run even after Alphonse gave up chasing miles ago and wondered why he had ever started.