Walking the length of a massive bridge on foot. Car fumes, heat, and over-the-shoulder glances to check for bikers bearing down. A pause now and then to stare at the river spreading undisturbed in a blue haze.
Some of the steps are even. Others are ragged stone stitched together with grass.
A trail threading through tall grass. It wears a patchy coat of sunlight.
Shortening a conversation with someone who likes to pour fear into my bones.
Planning and leading the hike takes a new kind of confidence, and I like that I can pull it off. I tend to brood about everything that can go wrong in any situation. To some extent, it's useful, but not when the thoughts become paralyzing.
By the river, there's music from decades ago and greasy food and cooler air. Shade on overhung paths and peace for the soul.
She asks me what the book I'm reading is about. How do I explain it to a kid? (Or to anyone, in a few seconds.) It's about people making bad decisions and receiving bad advice. Plus, someone doesn't know who his real parents are. And another person doesn't much like a man she's encouraged to marry. And...