Still Not Calling

I am sitting at the kitchen table. The bay was flat this morning. 5:40. My arm still knows what to do. Twenty years since the last race and my body still moves like it remembers.

Dr Reyes's number is right there on the fridge. My own handwriting. I look at it the way you look at a door you are scared to open.

I am not calling.

Tomorrow has been for three weeks now. The slot is the fourteenth. If I don't book it, I don't have to go. If I don't book it, I can still pretend I am fine. Just the guy who trains hard and ignores the thing.

The singlet is still on the wall. I walk past it and I don't take it down. I don't know if I am keeping it or hiding from it.

Carly comes on the fourth. I don't know what I will say to her face.

I make coffee. I sit. The fridge hums. I do nothing.

That is the truth. I do nothing again.