Tommye looks uncomfortable, her torso leaning back too far from her thin hips and toned legs, as though the two halves of her body have a strong desire to separate. A Northface fleece is zipped over her formal work attire; running shoes cover her stocking feet.
Tommye looks ready to run, is ready to run. She wants to run straight out of her black dress and her black tights and, in only her cotton underwear and sports bra, head somewhere else. Not anywhere else. Most places would be too much like here, now. She wants a place where she doesn’t have to go to a drab, windowless office, or grow stiff from sitting at her cramped desk, or stare at the harsh glare of a computer screen all day, just to make a living. Tommye wants to spend her days moving, flexing, bending, reaching, crouching, walking, running, dancing. She wants to go to bed with her muscles aching from too much exercise rather than too little.
She wants to run, but instead she gets on the train to downtown, speeding away from her desires.
Work, write, go-go dance, work, write, go-go dance, work, write, go-go dance. That's pretty much my life right now. I'm enjoying myself immensely, except for the work part.