As he turned into Sunnyside Mansions and pounded down Fisher Lane, waving distractedly to the guard in his box, Suraj felt heavier than usual. Perhaps it was the sky, so bright he could barely look it in the eye. It was a Saturday so he'd headed out later than usual. The day was unseasonably warm, and he couldn't wait to strip his sodden running gear off and cool down in the shower. There, another pearl of sweat off the end of his nose. First, he needed to slow down. He dropped pace as he swerved into Cabri Lane, then stopped running altogether. Damn, it was hot.
It was about a hundred yards to No. 654, and his thoughts ran easily to the impending celebrations. Neeta would be calling to confirm attendance with his friends, and perhaps a few of his colleagues; the kids would be squalling around the house heedless as she pleaded with them to help tidy up for Papa's big day. Forty-five! What was that, halfway? Back when the Santa Rosa start-up fell through and he'd begun scrambling for options, he'd found the recruitment tag Careers in Beer Begin Here as exotic as Denver's mountains were soothingly familiar. The job was no party (as he still had to explain at parties), but he hadn't looked back since he joined a decade and a half ago. For the youngest Vice-President at Molson Coors, the future was bright. As they used to say back in Vidyadarshan Secondary School, so bright you needed sunglasses.
He grinned as he plodded up the sidewalk, figuring he'd quiz Nischal, an MD, and Binay, an investment banker, about what they made of the future, halfway down the line. Back in school as skinny, pimpled kids who couldn't even bring themselves to approach the giggling St Mary's girls on Scout's Day, they could never have imagined they'd get so far, and still be together to take stock. Three guys with three gals and an American dream team of kids. The sky was the limit. Suraj Dhital and his jigris were pretty awesome.
Right now he wasn't feeling too awesome. He was only walking, but his breath was whistling somewhere behind him. It roared high in his ears like a bottling line at one of the breweries, and his neck felt stiff, like someone had him by the scruff and was dragging him down. It'd only been a month since he'd promised Nischal, on his 45th, that he'd take up running. He must be overdoing it. He doubled over, slippy hands on slippy knees, and squinted into the distance, perspiration filming his vision. He should have been home by now, but no, he was still at No. 583, where the ancient Korean vet always sat in a lawnchair with a tiny radio squawking on a footstool, waiting for his obese daughter and her kids to visit in that bust-up van, their scruffy clamour reminding the Dhitals they needed to upgrade to a better Denver burb, but when would they find the time?