I would guess his didn't come from a thrift store though.He made a motion directing me to start. I threw the coffee in a trash can. looked at my watch and took off. It had been a while since I ran, so I shot for one hour of solid running. I doubted that I could hold out that long without a break, but it was a goal. The service road was filled with motel parking lots and even a truck stop. The road had to be three or four miles long at least. I lead Rodney to the stop sign, then we turned and ran back. The hour was up but that run would have kicked my ass anyway, so I knew it had been too long, since I ran. Even so we ran around the three motel parking lots as well. That probably added another mile or so to the run.I was tired when I stepped into the shower, but I wasn't in pain. That would come in about an hour. I dressed for the day in the green fatigue pants, they were sold in stores under the name cargo pants. Mine were big, sloppy and black, most women wouldn't dare wear. I loved. But how could I accomplish that without causing either one of them pain or grief should either one of them learn of my involvement with the other? That was something I had to find an answer to, and soon. But I was getting better at this ‘being in two places at once thing,’ as I now saw it. Physically speaking, acting, moving and communicating on the waking level, and yet…thoughts which I knew were my own, asking…seeking, searching and exploring inside that subconscious place within a person’s mind, where they themselves were not thinking. The library, the books of their memories carefully arranged, sitting on the shelves waiting to be opened, accessed and read again. Or others, much like the one I was looking at now. Open, laying on a small desk (did I just create that? Or did she?) Blank pages, suddenly being written in, words almost magically appearing, filling each as the pages turned. In some ways it was a bit disconcerting, and yet I managed it. Talking verbally, communicating.
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