Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Three
Friday. For real.
Water, water, water.
I talk myself through all of the hypotheticals. I could be overthinking it. I could be not thinking enough. I might be paranoid. I might be spot on.
Sweating.
Two hours and ten minutes.
Weirder and weirder.
Compressed melon salad with prosciutto and gazpacho and picpoul.
The pressure, the pressure. Sweating.
Flip-flops on turf are probably not a great idea.
I watch the colors of the sky change as the minutes tick down on the clock. Back to Friday night lights. Everything is different, and yet it all still feels the same.
