Some of my best friends are athletic.
Elizabeth suggested pie at her gym for two reasons: the location was perfect for a post-work vs post-workout convergence; and it was air-conditioned. She also didn’t like the idea of me climbing the six flights of stairs to her unair-conditioned studio around the corner. It seemed like a good idea to the pie, whom on occasion has used a gym locker as a way station.
We talked about stuff. We had a little pie. We talked about other things. We had a little more pie. A bit more than one might think possible.
The pie and I agreed that being a gym rat was exhausting and that we deserved a massage. It’s our shoulders that need the most work. There are four different people who work at our favorite walk-in massage parlor. They are always appalled by the state of our shoulders. “Much stress,” they have each said diplomatically some time during the course of every session.
The pie in the basket waited patiently for an entire hour. Then it pounced upon the people who had shown my cherry-picking, pastry-rolling, pie-carrying shoulders so much kindness over the past year. It leapt onto plates and then into their unsuspecting mouths.
The other half of the pie came home to Harlem, fit and relaxed and ready for another outing.