He runs down the hill, always in a hurry, running to an unknown destination, his dark waist-length hair flying behind his ponytail. He is not a jogger; he wears jeans and T-shirt, carrying a backpack. You would think that he has managed his time by now so that he doesn’t need to run every morning. Yet as I walk up the hill to work, there he is flying by again.
Today he looks at me with curiosity. Does he know? Does he know that I want to trip him as speeds by me? Does he know that I want to pull his ponytail back so that his head pops back in surprise? Does he know that I want to laugh at his expense? Someday we’ll both find out.