Yesterday I wore a gorgeous dress, pretty underwear and strappy sandals. My hair was brushed, my eyeliner was perfect and the aroma of Marc Jacob’s Daisy Dream wafted around me.
I did not bump into anyone, other than my ex-husband, the local homeless guy and the broomseller.
This morning I overslept. Leapt out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on an old pair of shorts and a ripped vest, went for a run, did 12 kms, nearly died and collapsed on the grass, starfish style, to recover.
I was seriously fucked.
A guy. In a colourful t-shirt. A guy that I like a lot.
I sat up.
Sweat poured from my face.
I felt terrible. Dizzy. Faint. Nauseous.
A projectile vomit.
All over. Him. His shoes. His legs.
I’m going to finish my run. As soon as I’ve stopped hiding from behind my hands.
And then I’m never going to go for another run again.
And I’m never going to see him again.
It’s all about timing, isn’t it.