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..: Running Prep
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I get up from working on the blueprints, and leave the room that is our office. Not sure where she is. The bedroom light is off, and I see a vague shape on the couch that could be her. It is. She has her little hat on, and is reading a book. Her head is on the pillow, and she looks so happy and relaxed. I ease next to her on the couch, careful not to put any weight on her knees.

"I'm visualizing the race," she says. "The book says that I should mentally prepare myself. So I'm imagining myself at the starting line, waiting for the start. There's people everywhere. Asking myself 'Do I need to go to the bathroom?' I think so. I should go now. And I do."

I glance at her book, and realize it is one of her marathon books. One of her running books she has been enjoying lately. She is running the LA Marathon this Sunday morning. My eyes fall on one paragraph about the author recalling helicopters in the air at the starting line. I wonder if she's thought about that. There will be news helicopters, and the rain will be bad.

"I imagine myself running, talking with others. Running out of things to say. 10 miles, then 20. Running out of energy. I haven't got past that part yet."

We sit for a moment, I try to make it a point to linger. It is Sunday night, I am with my new bride, we ought to linger with each other more. And then I talk agenda again.

"Let's get ready to go to the gym," I say. "Do you hear that? I'm dragging you to the gym."

We go to the gym in the yellow Xterra. It's raining in Santa Monica, all the streets are wet. We do our little excercises. We leave. It's colder now than I remember. We come back, it's 9pm. I think about work tomorrow, it's so close to now. I hate to do things Sunday night, because I need that time to forget about the week ahead. So on the drive back, I think about what I will write for the RageBomb when I get home.

When we come home, we do the laundry. The whites. I start up the computer, and begin to write about the night's activities: the couch, the gym, the laundry. She comes in to the office with a white plastic bag, filled with something in the shape of tupperware.

"Ok, look at this. This is your lunch." She rotates it slowly so I can see all sides of the bag. "Do I need to write your name on it?"

I shake my head, no. Then yes. Then no. She laughs, and leaves me to my typing.
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