When I finish my run, I settle in on my back porch. Glass of water at my side. Not tap water, seltzer water made in a handy machine purchased at Walmart. I always include a wedge of lime. It makes my drink seem somehow better, even though I can’t really taste the lime. A bag of ice is planted under my left foot. I’m riding out the tail end of injury. When I use ice post run, my foot is better the next day, or at least not so bad.
My chair, an orange, steel ‘bouncy chair’ is a leftover from the fifties. The orange paint is old enough to be worn through. A seventies green shows beneath. Fifteen years ago, I drilled a hole in the low spot of the seat. Rainwater doesn’t pool up. Neither does my sweat. This way the chair never rusts. A trickle of sweat drains through the hole at uneven intervals staining the cement patio.
Lawn mowers hum in the distance. The scent of grilled meat competes with the lilacs blooming on the side yard. The smell of summer, of perfume—the smell of sweat rises from my drenched shirt, cooling in the evening shade.