On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, our running route ran up the hill on Comal. I was running slowly during those first few miles, since I wasn’t warmed up yet, and since … well since I just run slowly on hills. So people were passing me.
Somewhere about a half mile into the route, we came to a corner. The neighborhood here still consists of small, one-story houses — the few remaining refugees from the gentrification that is sweeping the east side of town. An elderly woman came out the door of one of the houses. She held on to the metal railing with both hands as she navigated the steps.
I heard a voice behind me. “Hello Rachel!”
The woman looked up and saw the woman who was coming up behind me. The elderly woman smiled and waved, “Good morning, Elizabeth!”
“We had your Pecan Pie the other day, Rachel. It tasted great!”
“Good,” the elderly woman said, “That’s good.”
What torture. At the beginning of a long run. In the morning. As we’re trudging uphill. To be reminded of Pecan Pie. What torture.