All that was about, within, around his thoughts: tomorrow’s race. Was 6k a race? Mike didn’t know. Either way, it was his first official run. He had a number, a reserved place, or something, and a tracker--a device that was wrapped around the ankle, humorous, to track time and, he thought, distance. To bed early tonight, he said. Time, 10:24p. He mandated before 11p. He wanted to write, but more so he just wanted to think, pair his daydreams, or late-eve-mind-meanderings to Wine Bar tracks. He knew he’d do well tomorrow. Or he’d try. 3.4 miles, he recollected the lady saying when he bought his spot.
Today, he finally made himSelf do it. Cross the street at lunch, pick a little, quiet circular table at the Roasting Co. and write for close to an hour. Was a sliver short of 60 minutes as he had to cross the street, walk two doors down from the coffee house to register for tomorrow’s race. Either way, he wrote, earphones in ears, collaborating with his vino-strumentals. He bought a small black coffee. No cream, sugar. Raw, unadulterated writer fuel. He chose a spot not near the window, as he usually did. He wanted isolation, even in a crowded coffee tavern. Would he do the same with every day’s lunch? More than likely no, and he knew that. But he did today. A solid wave in the swell-swirled body that was his novel...-ish. Not a novel. Yet.
The heat was supposed to begin diminishing, Mike thought he remembered hearing on last night’s news. Rain, maybe on the way. Wine, surely on the way. Tomorrow night, he’d open something impactful. He’d more than likely select a blend. Something with Bordeaux and Rhône. And possibly some Zin. A crazy bottle. Truly separatist, avant-garde, oeno-Cubism. He didn’t have a specific configuration envisioned. But he would reunite with elevated wine in morrow’s latter hours. Scribble, sip; Sentences, grateful to glass.