I've been taking more walks lately. Sometimes people ask me how it is that I manage to get around the campus as quickly as I do. I'm even able to outrun the Winklevii, with enough obstacles around and if I really put my mind to avoiding conflict. I don't really know the answer. I'm not a regular jogger, and I fell off the boat with fencing after college, but all the same, I'm still in better shape than most programmers I know— and believe me, that's not a small feat anymore, not with recent health studies continually pounding on the fact that the lot of us need to get out more and in the sun. There are always a few health nuts in each coding group.
Regardless, it's easy to pick up walking again. Sometimes breaking into a run, jogging. I think I do it because when I run, the only thing I need to think about is where that next step is going to be placed. And lately, getting that clear mind is just about as rare as anything.
I stop when I see Wichita, though. As far as distractions go, she's not a bad one to have.
The smell of pot is familiar to Mark as he steps a bit closer, quickly tucking his hands into his pockets. For once, the hoodie has been abandoned, a mere GAP T-shirt in its place. Flip-flops have been exchanged for sneakers. Back home, it'd be rare for Mark to set out with the intention of walking about and altering his outfit for that sole purpose; here, it's been happening with greater and greater frequency, a restlessness that doesn't settle well on his skin, that leaves his chest feeling taut most days. Strangely, the smoke from the joint just reminds him of campus, of school. He was never really much of a smoker, didn't see the appeal, especially after trying a joint or two himself— whatever minute amount of relaxation he's able to manage doesn't last long. But it doesn't stop him from stepping closer, glancing at Wichita with a concerned eye.
She doesn't look like the type to need a hit.
"You okay?" he asks first, and maybe it's presumptuous of him, but if there's anyone who might forgive him for that on the island, Mark's almost sure that she's one of them.
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Regardless, it's easy to pick up walking again. Sometimes breaking into a run, jogging. I think I do it because when I run, the only thing I need to think about is where that next step is going to be placed. And lately, getting that clear mind is just about as rare as anything.
I stop when I see Wichita, though. As far as distractions go, she's not a bad one to have.
The smell of pot is familiar to Mark as he steps a bit closer, quickly tucking his hands into his pockets. For once, the hoodie has been abandoned, a mere GAP T-shirt in its place. Flip-flops have been exchanged for sneakers. Back home, it'd be rare for Mark to set out with the intention of walking about and altering his outfit for that sole purpose; here, it's been happening with greater and greater frequency, a restlessness that doesn't settle well on his skin, that leaves his chest feeling taut most days. Strangely, the smoke from the joint just reminds him of campus, of school. He was never really much of a smoker, didn't see the appeal, especially after trying a joint or two himself— whatever minute amount of relaxation he's able to manage doesn't last long. But it doesn't stop him from stepping closer, glancing at Wichita with a concerned eye.
She doesn't look like the type to need a hit.
"You okay?" he asks first, and maybe it's presumptuous of him, but if there's anyone who might forgive him for that on the island, Mark's almost sure that she's one of them.