She adjusted the pocket scope, allowing the image to come into view. The next runner-up looked promising. Michelangelo could have chiseled this one out—broad shoulders, rippling quads, and abs she could iron a shirt on. He had a nice copper-toned sheen of sweat going on, but she couldn’t see his face since he had his head kinked down. Youcanjogwithoutlookingdownatyourfeet, she thought. Justflashmealittleface. He did, just once when he reared to straighten his back. She quickly stashed the scope in her side pocket then flipped her hair back. He was not only hot, he was incendiary!
She nudged the joystick, bringing the wheelchair up to the fringe of the jogging trail. Mr. Stud Cake was just making the S-turn on the path like a Standard bred pacer on the homestretch at Woodbine. She pulled the charcoal sketchpad from her side and set it on her lap. Just as the young man approached, she dropped the pad, letting it bounce twice on the grass. The handsome runner chirped to a stop, panting. He walked three steps, retrieved the pad from the grass and stepped up to the wheelchair. His eyes locked on hers for a brief moment before they panned down to her legs.
He extended the sketchpad. “Looks like you dropped this.”
She studied his eyes, looking for that inner light of recognition—that certain spark. It only took a microsecond to make the determination. Nobody was home. He might have been fine as first impressions went, like a trendy piece of clothing pulled off the rack. But once donned, it itched and felt clunky. Candidate number two did not look promising.
She grasped her sketchpad, knowing he hadn’t looked at it. “Thanks for getting that for me. A clumsy slip.”
“Name’s Mac,” he said. “They call me Mac Attack.”
“Diane Nine,” she said, pleasantly enough. He sounded like something off a McDonalds menu.
He shook his head, his eyes grave. “It’s a real shame that you had to end up like that. Can’t be much fun for you, stuck in that chair when the rest of us are out here shovin’ rubber to the road.”
“Oh, I get my rubber on the road.” She patted the wheelchair tire.
“Yeah, but what do you do about…you know…” His eyes lowered again. He seemed to be in a quandary or a hurry. Maybe both. “… About feeling things down there,” he went on. “I mean, does it stop you from partying down?”
She knew where this was going. Yet she dared, “What do you mean, partying down?”
“Well, gettin’ gigged—laid.”
This interview was over. “Look, I have my ways of having fun. I have enough parts to party down with. Okay? Sorry I cooled your run.”
Then he really popped off. “Yeah, but tootin’ the flute ain’t got nothing over braidin’ crotch hairs. That’s all I’m sayin’, dude.”
Thisguyfliesrightoutofthegatebeforethebell.
Diane flashed a dangerous grin. “That’s mighty white trash of you, dude. Ya know, I hear there’s a snipe hunt going on at a trailer park around the corner. I have a paper bag you can have free of charge. It’s great fun—there’s always a lot of bending over and laughing going on.”
It took him a while to process the insult. She could almost see the gears trying to mesh in his head, the synaptic nerves groping for contact, the tiny bulbs flickering. He backed away and resumed his position on the path. With a swagger, he crouched and kicked off. She watched him jog around the bend, mentally scratching him off her list. Next.
