I sat in front of my computer, looking through photos, writing about my experience, and listening to pump up music. I wrote with abandon, reliving moments of glory, when I crossed the finish line, writing all while wearing my orange headband.
Words flew from finger tips made nimble through pain killers. The adrenaline, the emotions of despair and finally victory, the taste of mud, the layer of sludge adhering to my flesh under the sun’s baking heat, the feeling of ice water shriveling my pride until I was a small boy again. All this and more was conveyed through the rapid tapping of my keys.
The door opened to the apartment and I stared at my roommate, a deer in headlights, thankful only for the fact his fiance was not with him. I watched him, watching me, his eyes wide, jaw dropped. I think he was giggling, or choking. Once, when he walked in on my watching My Little Pony, he stated, “I don’t think I could walk in on anything more awkward than this.” I had proven him wrong.
Target bag in hand, he inched his way to the kitchen, never taking his eyes off me. I continued to watch him, waiting for one of us to make a sudden movement. We maintained our composure. He slid his goods into the fridge and slowly made his way to the room at the end of the hallway, his sanctum. He closed the door. I put pants on.
I swear this didn’t actually happen. Almost happen? I refuse to comment. But pants were on when the door opened and all he said was, “Someone’s proud of his headband.” He doesn’t need to know the truth. So happy he fumbles with his keys.