... But You Can't Hide

by Bill Wickart

Morning run, 5AM, fourth mile. Faintly, far behind, I hear footsteps. Longer, heavier; coming closer.

Turn left; peek back. He's tall, dark, rugged. Why me? No purse ... uh-oh!

I accelerate. He, too, still gaining. I hear panting. I panic, run flat out.

Contact! A light shoulder slap.

"Nice running!" His warm baritone passes and disappears.

Copyright © - 1998. All Rights Reserved. Published with permission of the author.
Darrin Mossor
Last modified: Mon May 4 17:21:33 1998