Divorced And Out of His League
After stretching, I began jogging around the wide tracks, letting the cold morning air fill my lungs.
Other teams trained on different sections of the track. Their whistles, footsteps, and coach instructions blended into a chaotic chorus that somehow kept me grounded.
As I jogged, the last lap woman joined me. We fell into an easy rhythm.
“I didn’t catch your name last time,” she said.
“It’s Kayla,” I replied. “And yours?”
“Melanie,” she said breathlessly, “but everyone calls me Mel.”
She told me about her ten year old son, who spent most of his days building things from scraps. Cars made of wires, tiny houses made from matchsticks. Her eyes lit up as she spoke about him.
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