The annoying buzz of the machine, should be enough encouragement to get my ass in gear, but instead it's an arrogant solace acknowledging the fact I've been bereft of so many things in my life. And I've just let it happen. “Presley,” Xander's short of breath voice calls from the treadmill beside me. “Why aren't you running?” In disgust, I look up. “I hate running.” “It's good for you.” “Exercise is what's good for you.” “Which is what running is.” He wipes the sweat off his brow with the same white towel he brings to the gym every time we come. He's the one who insisted we worked out together. Logic told him if we ate the same meals our work outs should be the same, never mind the fact, we're built completely different and have two different paces of life. Xander is the conscience of the rich. He's a high up in a company that's in charge of running a string of non-profit organizations.
