The View From A Treadmill: 6:30-7:30 p.m.

Brake lights reflected in the gritty glass. A sharp whistle. Dusk falling, twilight dimming the harsh lines of people's faces as they return home from work. People coming up from underground. A surprise meeting, animated smiles and eyes brightened in the pedestrian cross walk lights. The numbers count down. Dark hair twirling upwards, away, escaping pony tails, rustling and restless in the breezy night. Shouts. Slumped posture, faded sign, tattered paper cup for change. Disaffected youth leaning up against concrete, one tapping out a beat on his leg with drumsticks, headphones masking the city sounds, another picking idly at wheel of a well-worn skateboard. Everywhere, people on phones. Making plans. Giving orders. Talking to loved ones. Still working. A woman in the window of Starbucks, holding a bouquet of flowers, silently weeping. Someone glances at their watch, looks up at the sky, looks back at their watch.

A million lives being lived out. Lights on in each little apartment window, that's someone's home, that's someone's life. I almost can't believe that I'm allowed to see this much of people from up here on the second floor, running on the treadmill. Maybe I should be down there with them, running on the hard pavement, hearing their conversations. Maybe they'd feel the heat of my exertion as I brush past them. It might be my one chance to see them, to know them. It might be their only chance to know that I'm living out my life too, the same as them.

But for now, I'll just watch.