9:49 p.m. - 2004-10-15
jogger
The thunk-thunk-thunk of my sneaks on the running-trail had increased in tempo since I'd caught sight of her...dark strands of ponytail clinging to her neck and shoulders, sweaty legs straining hard. A nice pair of sweaty legs too, I'd noted (atypically cognizant of something beyond the focus of my own painful regimen); hence the quickening of my pace despite the oppressive humidity out on the marsh. The gap between us shrank to 30 yards, then 15...her stride was growing ragged (she'd been at it longer than I had). At five yards back I was makin' ready to pass when I caught a whiff of something strangely familiar -- a fragrance that I instantly, and intimately, recognized. I slowed my pace, breathing deep the heated exhaust in her wake. It was an acrid funk, to be sure, but tasty nonetheless; bringing to mind images of wanton summer bed sheets and the closeness of my room after impassioned, Sunday morning, wrestling-matches. How many of my stretched-out t-shirts, conscripted into impromptu pajama duty, had gone to the laundry suffused with this particular aroma? Many. For this was neither perfume nor liniment, my friend; this was vodka. High-proof lady vodka-sweat, glistening on her flushed skin as she gritted her way down the home stretch.
Oh sweet nectar.
