One morning on the old rail trail, she recognized him running toward her, finishing his loop. Couldn’t women and men be friends? Wasn’t she still close with her guy friends from high school, and God knew there was nothing going on between them? It was nearly Christmas, and they were texting enough by then that she stopped herself from polling her girlfriends to find out whether Patrick’s friend from college was texting them all the time, in case the answer was no (in case the answer was yes). Her breathing quickened when she saw him. She decided the best thing was to say something friendly, something forgettable, but to not break her stride. All runners understand not stopping. And it was so cold. They were both wearing knit hats, gloves. But once he reached her, he turned around and ran alongside her without saying a word. He was not as tall as Malcolm. His build was leaner. He had large eyes the color of a faded penny, thick lashes, high cheekbones, full lips. She kept glancing at him and then away, and he kept doing the same. His running watch beeped. Even in the dead of winter his skin had a gold tone and didn’t turn ruddy and pink like hers did, like Malcolm’s did, too. His hair was buzzed to the scalp, and she imagined if he took his hat off right then, the cold would feel like a slap.