curves without edges

the day before the fourth of july, we went for an evening run around the lake. even at seven o'clock, the sun is out and bright, so we squint, and run away from it. there is a queue of muscled men waiting to do pull-ups at the bars in the park. we join them. their dark skins are ridged with strength and sewn with tattoos — names on rib-cages and necks, stars on elbows and calves, two hands held together in prayer on a left pectoral — and our skin, nearly translucent and mottled pink from the heat; softer, curves without edges.

i squint into the sun and grip the bar. there is a metallic smell, and the smell of my own sweat. for the last two pulls, i hold my breath and bend my knees up, as though to inch my chin closer to the rusted metal from the bottom up. last week, i walked this asphalt to the movies, with my fingers resting lightly on an arm and the skin of my legs pricking with goosebumps in the evening chill. right here, but far off in time. the sun stays the same and there is a layering that is independent of my body. the deepening pulls some selective nostalgic fiber and mortality cinches closer without direct threat. cars speed by and the lights of the grand lake theater go on. let's keep running, rachel says, and we do.

the path weaves through a swath of canadian geese, down under oak branches, and over their old roots. past the small hill by the lake chalet, where one can buy a gondola ride, and down onto the grassy esplanade. a circle of male drummers evoke african beats on djembes to one side of the path, while a group of older asian women practice tai chi on the other. unrelated, but somehow synchronized. fat woman with stroller, thin mother with toddler, nanny with three babies and one stroller. it is calm without slowing down. small dogs careen in geometric trajectories governed by their leashes.