Hotline Fling

10: Give Yourself a Hand

Juneau's POV

Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of my forehead. My blood roared through my veins with each pounding heartbeat. With each slam of my feet, I squeezed my fists into tight balls and pushed short, sharp pants through pursed lips. A slight euphoric high lifted in me until I was hit with a completely obvious, and painful realization.

This sucks.
And not in a good way.

Step by step, I forced my feet to move. My hair swished across the back of my neck like a dog wagging its tail, but none of me enjoyed this activity. The late afternoon breeze fanning my cheeks did nothing against the sweat that poured out from parts of me that I forgot sweated. Bare between my legs, I felt every increased degree of temperature increase and trickle of sweat. Eww.

Out of fear that I rolled an ankle over these damn square street stones, I darted my eyes ahead of me. The endless path filled me with a sense of dread.

What was I thinking? Such lofty intentions when I slipped on jogging sweats, a T-shirt, and a one-size-too-small sports bra. A playlist of inspirational exercise music and a three-mile path mapped on my phone set me off. After a light stretch, the inspiration for Friday's underwear photo shoot flowed through my veins. I gave Gus his medication, patted his furry head, and stepped out of the back of my apartment building. Jogging to Hudson Avenue, I turned south, away from the water and Navy Yard.

The most charming part of the six-block area stretching from the East River to the Navy Yard was the 'cobblestone' bricks lining the streets which, unfortunately, were a death trap on my jog. Technically, they were 'Belgian Blocks,' but their unevenness buckled my ankles. I hadn't explored much of the small neighborhood other than Damascus Bakery, where their seventy-five percent off leftover bagels at the end of the day were a close second to freshly baked. Most of Vinegar Hill was flat federal-style homes and abandoned industrial buildings, including a large Con-Ed substation that no one knew what to replace it with. Graffiti-inspired murals splayed over the adjacent cement wall leading to my apartment complex, which had nowhere near the amenities of my previous one, but desperate times drove me here.

Encouragement of 'Eye of the Tiger' thumped in my ears, but my intentions stone-walled three blocks into the jog. I was anything but a runner. My only respite was the traffic light stops, where I assuredly was not one of those weirdos who jogged in place while they waited their turn.

I did not have the eye of the tiger. At this point, I didn't have Gus' working eye either.

My thighs clapped at my forward progress bringing m to a set of green and red walls coated with white graffiti in Commodore Barry Park. The further away Battery Park was my destination, but I detoured into an expansive grassy area with baseball fields, a playground, and worn brick paths separated by tree medians. Beyond the treeline, silver and glass high rises rose overhead on my left, and brick structures towered into the sky on my right.

With the heat level flaming under my skin, I trapped myself in a sauna. My armpits and inner thighs joined in the sweat party, my breath sounded damn near asthmatic, and miserable was an understatement of my mood. Adding further insult, a sharp stitch punched my left rib. I gasped and slowed to a walk.

I grounded my hands on my hips, my chest bouncing with each ragged breath, and I scowled at the pavement.

What the fuck was I thinking? I'm not a runner.
But I can walk.

I reset my stride and breathed through my steps until my muscles were warmed but not punished. The pain stitch bit back a few steps, but I puffed up my chest, drew in my stomach, and clenched the muscles in my glutes with each step. Much better.