пошли домой

It was eighty-five degrees and we live out among farm fields, so my from-home run was a fairly treeless, broiling affair. It would have been understandable if I’d thought the woman I was approaching on the road was a mirage.

I had on as little clothing as I could without getting arrested or chaffing to death, and this small, old woman had on a hat and two shirts, pants, sneakers, sunglasses. I wondered briefly if she might be a birder, since she was craning around, stopping, veering, taking things in, and qualified for the position on her observable fashion alone.

But she wore no binoculars. She motioned to me effusively as I passed. As I mentioned, I was ostensibly “running” (doing something more rigorous if not faster than standard walking), so I stopped my book on tape, which was on speakerphone because who can actually find headphones, but I don’t think she would have cared if I’d kept it running, such was her focus on communicating.

What was interesting about the conversation that followed was that it took place largely in Russian. I don’t speak Russian.