Not the other thing

There is a woman running up the street towards the hospital.

I stick my head out the window, into the cool spring night, and watch her as she runs in her jeans, and jumper, and low-heeled boots, clutching her bag to her side so it doesn’t bang.

The sky at this time of the evening is a magnetic blue behind the hospital roofs.

She might be a new grandmother, I think.

And I hope it is that, and not the other thing, that she’s running for.

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