Knees creaking, viagra buy malady popping, doctor whining and grinding, I reach the summit of Manhattan Bridge and spy three old Chinese women in the distance. They swing their arms in exaggerated Tai Chi mimes, seemingly parting then promptly re-joining an invisible Red Sea. Over and over and over again.
It’s 6am when we pass each other by. I’m in my running kit, they’re in their colorful blouses and simple, flat-soled shoes. We say a ‘hey’ of sorts, as has become our morning ritual, then clench our ears in solidarity as a subway train rumbles by. It is a yellow line train. The N. And it suffocates all other sound, including the rasp of my lungs and their sing-song patter.
I run on.
Past graffiti’d rooftops and down, down off the bridge and into the belly of Chinatown.
Hey, look at me! Street weaver, dustbin dancer prancer! I zig and zag. I high-step over a fish head and strewn garbage. A quick wink to the statue in Chatham Square. Love your pigeon poop coat and hat! Then I turn right and head towards City Hall. Feet pounding, heart thudding. Brain ignoring the hard-hatted construction Joes buying java from a street cart.
I run on. On to the scruffy welcome mat of the Brooklyn Bridge.
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