Cold Frame by P. T. Deutermann

just enjoy the morning. You warm up already?”
    â€œNo, but it won’t take a minute,” she said. She then proceeded to stretch and bend, and then bend and twist some more. Av continued through his own warm-up motions while trying not to stare. Had to admit: the young lady had developed a lovely procedure. He grinned when a passing runner bounced into a hedge as he trotted by, gawking. Yeah, dude, he thought. She is pretty, isn’t she.
    â€œOkay,” she said a few minutes later. “Ready if you are.”
    They headed up the towpath at a leisurely jog. She ran alongside to his left and appeared to be going at an enjoyable pace. She was fit, he decided after five minutes, with no visible breathing problems. He relaxed. He’d been afraid she might be trying for something she couldn’t really do, but it was evident that she actually was a runner. The morning was glorious, the air clear and smog-free, the towpath traffic light as they jogged in place while waiting to cross the streets. While they were waiting at the second bridge, he heard Rue squeak in surprise. He looked over, saw her staring at something in front of them, and then he saw it, too. “It” was a man’s face looking back at them through the driver’s-side window of a black Mercedes that was stuck in traffic across from them. He was wearing a red ball cap, and there was something really wrong with his face, and with his left eye in particular, which made it impossible to tell how old he was, but that left eye reminded Av of a snake’s eyes. Rue looked away, aware that she was being rude, and then the traffic edged forward, creating a gap through which they quickly crossed the street and then went back down to the towpath.
    â€œJeez,” he heard her say, and he grunted something in reply. Some weirdo wearing a Halloween mask, right there in broad daylight. They finally jogged out of the urban part of Georgetown and into the park. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; even the canal water still looked better than usual, with no visible floating bodies. He’d decided not to talk: he could maintain this pace for miles and hold a conversation, but he wasn’t yet sure about her.
    Once they cleared the downtown area he asked if she was ready to kick it up a bit. She nodded, and they went to work. For the next three miles he concentrated on his own pace and breathing while not paying much attention to her. She’d told him to keep on going if she faltered, but she didn’t. At four miles, near Chain Bridge, he slacked off. He looked over at Rue. She was breathing much harder now, and her face and skin were flushed. She looked back at him and nodded, but obviously had no breath for conversation. He slowed to the jog pace for the next half-mile, watching her out of the corner of his eye as her color faded and she regained her breath. He looked at his watch.
    â€œTurnaround time,” he announced. “Slow jog back, okay?”
    She nodded. As they turned around he caught her scent: a touch of perfume, some serious sweat, and a bare frisson of something else. Female exertion, he decided, or some of those lethal female pheromones. Shields up!
    As they headed back he became aware of two runners closing in behind them. He wanted to look back but held himself in check. There were lots of runners out by then. Two more behind him meant nothing. Except: they were gaining, running harder than he and Rue were, their feet pounding harder on the towpath than seemed necessary. A moment later they passed him.
    Military again. Those same sunglasses, cropped hair, extreme fitness, and passing a little closer than necessary. He’d felt Rue move in closer to him when they’d gone by. Then he realized the runners were slowing their pace a bit now that they were in front. Extra-long black tees, red shorts today, military-style ball caps. Familiar, he thought. Coincidence? Not fucking likely.
    Footsteps behind