I learned the word for spit the other day. My buddy, the middle school long-distance runner, who joyfully insas me every afternoon, pointed to a glossy spot on the padded weightroom flooring –“Chim! Chim!” and he said ‘I didn’t do it,’ though they made him go get toilet paper to clean it up.
We became jogging buddies, briefly. Had I known he was starting his warm-up, I would not have run at all. But we just happened to begin at the same time, so I found myself jogging with him, thinking ‘Christ. This is going to be embarrassing. I’m going to turn purple, start gasping for air, and he’ll have to leave me behind.’ I don’t know how to breathe while running; this is the problem. He’s Jenny’s student and she had a friend visiting.
“Jennifer friend, today: school bap –yum yum.” We talked, and jogged, I didn’t once kick myself, he didn’t leave me behind, and for the first time in my life the lap ended before I could think ‘dear god, it will never end.’