You were in your car. I was on foot and on the sidewalk, safely out of the way from having learned my lesson during a previous incident. As you approached you honked your horn at me and I thought we probably knew each other so I waved. I looked up in time to see you holding your hand horizontally at me, shaking it slightly back and forth, the Mexican hand gesture for mas-o-menos or ‘almost.’ What about my run was ‘almost,’ so almost that you felt the need to get my attention to tell me so?

Nothing about a blonde, foreign, middle-aged mother going for a run on these hazards you call streets is ‘almost.’ I could have easily stayed home on the couch while merely talking about running. That would have been almost.

You, sir, are almost. Almost polite enough to mind your own business. Almost gentleman enough to look but not comment at a lone female you see on the street. Almost kind enough not to pass judgement on someone else doing what they can in life. I almost care about what you think. Almost.

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