Weekend Friend

07.

UNSURPRISINGLY, GOING FOR a long run the morning after a night of partying isn't easy. My lungs threaten to rebel against me as I fight to keep pace with Parker on our run to Gas Works Park. But if I'm going to keel over, I may as well do it somewhere with a view.

Gas Works Park sits on the north shore of Lake Union, opposite the skyscrapers of downtown Seattle. The park contains the remnants of a former gas plant, consisting of rusted towers, bronze pipes, and other industrial artefacts covered in ivy. There's a sort of whimsicality about the ruins that the cityscape only enhances, making it popular among tourists and locals. It's also a short way from campus, making it easy to incorporate into runs.

A strong breeze rolls off the water, cooling the sweat on the back of my neck as we run up the winding path that leads to the singular hill in the park. I manage to beat Parker to the top, stopping at the edge of the large horizontal sundial, made of bronze and concrete with random objects embedded in it—a bear claw, a ceramic crab, and pieces of pottery. Soft morning light shimmers on the water pooling around the various objects, catching on sea glass and framing the ying-yang symbol at the centre of the dial.

"I'm sitting down now!" Parker announces from behind me, her voice rising above the Anastasia song I'm blasting from my AirPods.

I pause Left Outside Alone on my Garmin watch as I take a loop around the sundial to methodically stretch out my calves before taking a seat beside Parker, facing the lake and skyline. It's a little after ten o'clock, but plenty of boats coast atop the choppy water, their white sails rippling in the breeze.

I heave out a breath as I draw my knees up. "Thank god I only ever smoke cigs on the weekend."

"Yesterday was Friday," Parker deadpans.

I side-eye her. "Friday night counts as part of the weekend."

Parker dismisses my statement with a flick of her wrist. "I'm sure you'll abandon that principle if you study abroad in Europe during Spring Quarter."

"Because that's obviously an exception."

"Obviously," Parker mimics.

I frown, knowing full well she resents my occasional weekend habit, but we don't need to address my casual relationship with cigarettes—at least not now. Besides, she already knows I intend to quit this year.

"So are we going to debrief last night or what?" I deflect as I play with the end of my braid.

There's usually two debriefs that follow a night out at Claremont. The first debrief occurs in the immediate aftermath of the night. It typically transpires on the journey home from wherever the hell we were and continues in the kitchen while devouring whatever snack we'd deemed essential for survival. However, the defining characteristics of this debrief are relaying new gossip and elaborately re-enactments of conversations with all the grace of children putting on a play for their parents.

The second debrief occurs after some amount of sleep. It generally calls for a more level-headed review of the night to compensate for whatever adrenaline-induced evaluations—good or bad—had prevailed during the first debrief. Depending on the magnitude of our headaches, our discussions could get wildly introspective.

I valued the two debriefs equally, and looked forward to them when there wasn't any ungodly chaos to address. Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case last night. We'd left around 2:00 AM, a perfectly respectful time of departure.

"Nothing is different," Parker says, her tone soft and almost wistful. "We're still the same noncommittal people who can't figure out how to keep each other happy for extended periods of time."