One hot, sticky summer day, I wiped away the sweat collecting on my forehead and held a large garbage bag open as Evan, who worked with me on our college’s grounds crew, raked a heap of leaves in my direction.
We asked readers to submit their least romantic stories for our Valentine’s Day issue. To read the other tales of woe and regret, see the rest of our (almost) romance-free ode to Valentine’s Day.
As far as the latter, he was referring to his coveted title as the star runner on the cross-country team. Evan had bragged that college recruiters were looking at him as early as junior year of high school. “My school’s pretty well known,” he said.
“Woooooooh,” he said. “That was freaking awesome.”
I held the lead for five minutes, depleting every source of energy I could muster and going back for more. Coming into view was a large expansion of water, undoubtedly the reservoir. The campsite was close by, and I was about to win the race. Then he zoomed past me. “Motherfucker!” I yelled.
“Well, maybe if you lost some you’d be fitter. Just an idea.”
Dumbfounded, perplexed at how he found 120 pounds at five feet and seven inches overweight, I changed the subject.
