apartment, wondering if anyone would notice if I never came out.
“C’mon, Waverly, let’s go out for happy hour,” McKenna said early Friday afternoon. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
“I’d rather visit my dad,” I said. “Does that tell you anything?”
“Fine, fine. But I’m calling you again tomorrow.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
When Saturday afternoon rolled around, I decided to get off my butt and go for a run. I doubt there are many places more beautiful to run than San Francisco on a crisp winter day, so I hoped it would cheer me up. As I headed down the hill toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked out at the spectacular view below. The water was sprinkled with sailboats, and I could see a number of touch-football and pickup soccer games going on at the Marina Green. Back in college I always wore headphones when I ran, but once I moved to San Francisco I had stopped using them. The scenery was entertainment enough, so for years I’d been enjoying my runs with only the gentle rhythm of my breathing to accompany me. I often ran through the Presidio, part of the Golden Gate Recreation Area, and there was something about the feel and sound of leaves crackling under my feet that invigorated me. This particular Saturday was a typical December day, cold yet not freezing, and once I warmed up, the cool air on my face was refreshing.
I weaved through the Presidio and made my way toward the Golden Gate Bridge. When I reached the path leading up to the entrance, I looked at my watch. I had already been running for my standard max of thirty-five minutes, but I wasn’t tired yet, so I decided to keep going and started the trek across. I couldn’t go very fast though, because it was really crowded. The pedestrian walkway on the bridge was always packed with tourists, the majority of them dressed in the ubiquitous FISHERMAN’S WHARF or PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ fleeces they’d had to buy because they hadn’t realized how cold it was going to be. Sometimes the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the bridge, much less Alcatraz, but those cheesy fleeces were hard to miss.
When I got to the other side, I looked at my watch again. I’d been running for nearly fifty minutes, and now I was definitely tired, and I still had to get back. Oops. Nice distance management. But I didn’t mind. It was such a gorgeous day, and I wasn’t in a hurry, so I decided to walk leisurely back to the San Francisco side of the bridge and up the hill to my apartment. The sun was slowly melting my bad mood away.
On the way back, I watched all the groups of guys playing football and soccer on the grassy Marina Green. Some of them looked pretty cute, and I wished I could stop to watch and casually strike up a conversation when a loose ball flew my way, just like happens in the movies.
But this wasn’t the movies, so my feet kept moving. They carried me to the Coffee Roastery three blocks away on Chestnut Street, and I was glad I had tucked a five-dollar bill into my pocket. It was a cold day, and a hot chocolate and a warm banana nut muffin were calling my name.
Unfortunately, the snacks weren’t the only ones calling my name.
“Hey, Waverly, how’s it going?”
I turned around, and there was Brad Cantor.
“Oh, hi, Brad, how are you?” Everywhere, that’s how he was.
“I’m good, good. What a gorgeous day!” He stood too close to me, as usual, and I found myself stepping backward.
“Yep,” I said, looking over his shoulder for help.
He stepped a little closer. “I’m just grabbing an afternoon snack. I love the chocolate cake here.”
I smiled and took another step back, then looked at the cashier. “Can you change that to go please?” I whispered.
“So, are you coming to my holiday party next weekend?” Brad said.
I bit my lip. “Uh, a party next weekend? I don’t think I know about it.”
“Oh, well I sent you the Evite, but I can tell from the master list that you haven’t opened
“C’mon, Waverly, let’s go out for happy hour,” McKenna said early Friday afternoon. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
“I’d rather visit my dad,” I said. “Does that tell you anything?”
“Fine, fine. But I’m calling you again tomorrow.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
When Saturday afternoon rolled around, I decided to get off my butt and go for a run. I doubt there are many places more beautiful to run than San Francisco on a crisp winter day, so I hoped it would cheer me up. As I headed down the hill toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked out at the spectacular view below. The water was sprinkled with sailboats, and I could see a number of touch-football and pickup soccer games going on at the Marina Green. Back in college I always wore headphones when I ran, but once I moved to San Francisco I had stopped using them. The scenery was entertainment enough, so for years I’d been enjoying my runs with only the gentle rhythm of my breathing to accompany me. I often ran through the Presidio, part of the Golden Gate Recreation Area, and there was something about the feel and sound of leaves crackling under my feet that invigorated me. This particular Saturday was a typical December day, cold yet not freezing, and once I warmed up, the cool air on my face was refreshing.
I weaved through the Presidio and made my way toward the Golden Gate Bridge. When I reached the path leading up to the entrance, I looked at my watch. I had already been running for my standard max of thirty-five minutes, but I wasn’t tired yet, so I decided to keep going and started the trek across. I couldn’t go very fast though, because it was really crowded. The pedestrian walkway on the bridge was always packed with tourists, the majority of them dressed in the ubiquitous FISHERMAN’S WHARF or PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ fleeces they’d had to buy because they hadn’t realized how cold it was going to be. Sometimes the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the bridge, much less Alcatraz, but those cheesy fleeces were hard to miss.
When I got to the other side, I looked at my watch again. I’d been running for nearly fifty minutes, and now I was definitely tired, and I still had to get back. Oops. Nice distance management. But I didn’t mind. It was such a gorgeous day, and I wasn’t in a hurry, so I decided to walk leisurely back to the San Francisco side of the bridge and up the hill to my apartment. The sun was slowly melting my bad mood away.
On the way back, I watched all the groups of guys playing football and soccer on the grassy Marina Green. Some of them looked pretty cute, and I wished I could stop to watch and casually strike up a conversation when a loose ball flew my way, just like happens in the movies.
But this wasn’t the movies, so my feet kept moving. They carried me to the Coffee Roastery three blocks away on Chestnut Street, and I was glad I had tucked a five-dollar bill into my pocket. It was a cold day, and a hot chocolate and a warm banana nut muffin were calling my name.
Unfortunately, the snacks weren’t the only ones calling my name.
“Hey, Waverly, how’s it going?”
I turned around, and there was Brad Cantor.
“Oh, hi, Brad, how are you?” Everywhere, that’s how he was.
“I’m good, good. What a gorgeous day!” He stood too close to me, as usual, and I found myself stepping backward.
“Yep,” I said, looking over his shoulder for help.
He stepped a little closer. “I’m just grabbing an afternoon snack. I love the chocolate cake here.”
I smiled and took another step back, then looked at the cashier. “Can you change that to go please?” I whispered.
“So, are you coming to my holiday party next weekend?” Brad said.
I bit my lip. “Uh, a party next weekend? I don’t think I know about it.”
“Oh, well I sent you the Evite, but I can tell from the master list that you haven’t opened
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