... 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.
Last modified: Mon May 4 17:21:33 1998