Jordan doesn't understand people who run in the morning. He tried for a few weeks, muscles tugging in the sick, weak sunlight, eyes too wet, stomach queasy. When his feet slapped the ground it felt all wrong, as though the concrete of the sidewalk weren't fully dry. Is any race worth that kind of ugliness? Is good health?
Mornings are for pillows, heavy blankets, the soft skin over a woman's hip and behind her ear. Mornings are for showers, long hot ones where you might forget to rinse out the conditioner. Mornings are for toast with lite cream cheese, black coffee, National Public Radio.
Nighttime is for running. Jordan feels faster with the dark slips off his sweat, more powerful with the cool air on his neck, the only heat emanating from his body and whatever remains in the pavement. He prefers the calm yellow glow of old dirty streetlights, of the moon.
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