A man doing yoga and a woman doing anger

I’ve started running because a family friend told me that it would cure my neck pain. She told me swimming was better, but I can’t swim. Well I can swim, but I’m not good at it, so I tell people I can’t swim. So I run around my block in a loop. The days that I run I see a man doing yoga. His eyebrows remind me of John Howard’s. He is always in the same spot, wearing the same white shirt and pair of Adidas slippers, moving like milk from a carton.

At the bottom of the hill there is a woman, not always, but more often than not. She lives in a nice house, and she has forgotten if she is still there. She has forgotten because she doesn’t feel nice in her nice house with nice curtains and nice lampshades. She is speaking loudly into her phone, she is angry, and as I jog past the house I hear her say my dog doesn’t even smile when it sees me, It doesn’t even smile and then she throws her nice phone on her nice couch. She is not even there.

I’m not tired when I finish the loop and I think that it would be a good idea to keep running, but I don’t. I walk up the driveway and my cat smiles at me, moving to rub its body against my leg just enough so I can feel it.

I think about the woman doing anger, because one day I came home and my cat didn’t smile at me, and it wasn’t a good start to the end of the day. I usually like the man doing yoga, because he is always there, and he is always moving, just enough to make sure he is still there. But today I like the woman who is not really there. I like the woman doing anger.

My cat smiled at me today

‘No she didn’t,’
‘Yes she did,’
‘Cats don’t smile.’
‘Yes they do.’
‘I hate you.’

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