Make Me Hate You

I didn’t get up at five the next morning to go for my run.

Instead, I peeled myself out of my warm sheets somewhere around eight, and did more of a walk slash jog for half the distance I usually ran.

Still, I broke a sweat easily enough — even if half of it seemed to be the booze from the night before — and though it was just slightly north of torture, the movement helped me feel better.

I headed straight for the kitchen when I got back to the Wagner’s, chest covered with a sheen of sweat as I grabbed a glass and filled it with water. The few cars that had still been in the front yard when I left were gone now, so I imagined it was just me and the Wagners once again.