eternity of heart grief and sickness for my peerless Lord, who surpassed the Achaeans in all nobility.”
As she concludes, she closes the book again. After a long pause, she says, “They just don’t say that kind of stuff nowadays, you know?”
“True,” I say, momentarily swept up by the passage and her voice.
“I’m an old soul, what can I say? What about you?” she asks, shifting in her seat. “What’s your favorite book?”
“If I had to choose, I’d say The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre…” I find myself saying, feeling pride at having such distinguished taste.
“Dumas!” she interrupts, excitedly. “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment and be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome, ‘Do your worst, for I will do mine!’ Then the fates will know you as we know you…”
I am speechless from her recitation. Suddenly, I remember how the line finishes, “…as Albert Mondego, the man!”
She claps vigorously as I watch myself taking a prideful bow. “That’s not your favorite though,” she says. “I can tell.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
“Dumas is great, but I feel like you’re more of a Fitzgerald kind of guy.”
“I would be if he didn’t die for being too softhearted when he should have just let her go.” She huffs quietly.
Seeing her displeased, I think of what my favorite book really was. Kind of scared to admit it, I say, “Actually, my dad made me read this quote book when I was a young boy, as a kind of punishment.”
“Interesting…” she replies, looking concerned.
“It is.” I notice that I am doing my best to look invulnerable, despite her look of concern. “I pretty much know every famous quote coming from any athlete’s mouth that’s ever been said.”
“Really? Give me one.”
I look around the bar, trying to remember. The right one comes to mind and, seemingly cocky, I lean in closer. “The real purpose of running isn’t to win a race,” I say, quietly. “Rather, it’s to test the limits of the human heart.”
“A runner, I assume?”
“Bill Bowerman,” I say as I sip my coffee and lean back, trying to appear confident. “He wasn’t a runner so much as he was a coach.”
“No, I mean you.”
“A long time ago,” I say, feeling momentarily wistful. “I was a half-marathon runner.”
“Do you still run?”
“No,” I find myself saying flatly. Covering my sadness, I muster, “I don’t run anymore, but who cares? Why dwell on the past? Especially when success isn’t just to be had in running races.”
“Well,” she says, “I am quite sorry to hear that.”
“I gave my all to running, for sure,” I say, “and maybe there are faster runners out there. I may have stopped running, but I sure as hell haven’t stopped winning.” I smile, thinking confidently of future wealth and power.
“You loved running, but you just gave it up because someone was faster?” A look crosses her face that I don’t know how to interpret; it’s sad and frustrated, somewhat disappointed. She continues, “What about the next race? What about a second chance? Giving up guarantees you won’t win.”
I feel myself getting angry and stifle it down. Trying to be polite with the amount of sudden, inexplicable anger coursing through me, I say firmly, “I just wasn’t fast enough, okay?! Can we drop it?s! I didn’t continue asking about the picture in your snow globe, did I?”
She sits back in her chair, out of my space, and eyes me warily. She’s scared of me, I think. “Sorry if I scared you. I’m just not into running anymore is all.”
She nods and replies almost hesitantly, “Do you believe any of the quotes you can recite? Or are you just saying them because they make you feel superior?”
For some reason, this shocks me. I didn’t know I could feel this way. The words
As she concludes, she closes the book again. After a long pause, she says, “They just don’t say that kind of stuff nowadays, you know?”
“True,” I say, momentarily swept up by the passage and her voice.
“I’m an old soul, what can I say? What about you?” she asks, shifting in her seat. “What’s your favorite book?”
“If I had to choose, I’d say The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre…” I find myself saying, feeling pride at having such distinguished taste.
“Dumas!” she interrupts, excitedly. “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment and be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome, ‘Do your worst, for I will do mine!’ Then the fates will know you as we know you…”
I am speechless from her recitation. Suddenly, I remember how the line finishes, “…as Albert Mondego, the man!”
She claps vigorously as I watch myself taking a prideful bow. “That’s not your favorite though,” she says. “I can tell.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
“Dumas is great, but I feel like you’re more of a Fitzgerald kind of guy.”
“I would be if he didn’t die for being too softhearted when he should have just let her go.” She huffs quietly.
Seeing her displeased, I think of what my favorite book really was. Kind of scared to admit it, I say, “Actually, my dad made me read this quote book when I was a young boy, as a kind of punishment.”
“Interesting…” she replies, looking concerned.
“It is.” I notice that I am doing my best to look invulnerable, despite her look of concern. “I pretty much know every famous quote coming from any athlete’s mouth that’s ever been said.”
“Really? Give me one.”
I look around the bar, trying to remember. The right one comes to mind and, seemingly cocky, I lean in closer. “The real purpose of running isn’t to win a race,” I say, quietly. “Rather, it’s to test the limits of the human heart.”
“A runner, I assume?”
“Bill Bowerman,” I say as I sip my coffee and lean back, trying to appear confident. “He wasn’t a runner so much as he was a coach.”
“No, I mean you.”
“A long time ago,” I say, feeling momentarily wistful. “I was a half-marathon runner.”
“Do you still run?”
“No,” I find myself saying flatly. Covering my sadness, I muster, “I don’t run anymore, but who cares? Why dwell on the past? Especially when success isn’t just to be had in running races.”
“Well,” she says, “I am quite sorry to hear that.”
“I gave my all to running, for sure,” I say, “and maybe there are faster runners out there. I may have stopped running, but I sure as hell haven’t stopped winning.” I smile, thinking confidently of future wealth and power.
“You loved running, but you just gave it up because someone was faster?” A look crosses her face that I don’t know how to interpret; it’s sad and frustrated, somewhat disappointed. She continues, “What about the next race? What about a second chance? Giving up guarantees you won’t win.”
I feel myself getting angry and stifle it down. Trying to be polite with the amount of sudden, inexplicable anger coursing through me, I say firmly, “I just wasn’t fast enough, okay?! Can we drop it?s! I didn’t continue asking about the picture in your snow globe, did I?”
She sits back in her chair, out of my space, and eyes me warily. She’s scared of me, I think. “Sorry if I scared you. I’m just not into running anymore is all.”
She nods and replies almost hesitantly, “Do you believe any of the quotes you can recite? Or are you just saying them because they make you feel superior?”
For some reason, this shocks me. I didn’t know I could feel this way. The words
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