It's humid hot, night now, I go for a run.

Is this guy a caveman? No, seriously, this guy (or girl) is going on a run, and there's just no two ways about it. A masterfully informative, albeit brief, introduction!

I wear all black, socks included, run faster than at noon: the track's softer at night? 

This "all-black" description really hits home because I, too, enjoy dressing in all black, socks included. Also, I've ran on tracks at both noon and night. I'm practically right there in the story, running beside this character. In fact, I am the character!

Packs of Latino kids on bikes, young girl learning to skate.

This line gets my attention for a number of reasons. First, I notice that the packs of kids on bikes are exclusively Latino while the nationality of the lone girl is never really revealed. In the same sense, the sex of the Latinos remains mysteriously ambiguous. This makes me wonder if the Latino kids are perhaps ghosts, sexless Spanish-speaking spirits destined to ride the streets forever on two wheels. Is this their awful penance? Is it really so awful to be riding a bike for eternity? And what did they do to receive so tiresome a penalty?

Also, I wonder where the heck the young girl's parents are and why they allow their child, whom we know is just a novice to skates, to wander alone out in the ghost-filled streets at night. Does she even have parents? Are they swingers? Is she an orphan? Or maybe she is a ghost too? How intriguing . . .

White woman doing yoga stretches, on her stomach, arching her neck and back: a turtle out of its shell, trying as hard as she can to ejaculate out of her ears, I think.

Now, I observe that the author has introduced a new ethnic group associated with a woman performing "yoga." Her symbolic actions, and the freaky turtle out of its shell, point aptly in the direction of the spiritual world. Is this to say that God is Caucasian while the damned, as clearly seen in the previous line, are Latino?

Additionally, I am unsure whether it is the holy woman or the scary, slug-like turtle that attempts to ejaculate from said ears. And what is to be ejaculated? Some sort of holy/evil jism? Is the turtle a fallen angel, rendering the removed shell a symbol for broken wings? Is this Beelzebub? Oh, how my curiosity advises me to read on . . . 

Tall white man (not me) with pony tail and long track-star pants running too fast, twisting his torso a little, really exerting: a professional aspirant who takes the 99% perspiration thing literally, I think. 

The "not me" in parenthesis implies that the white man running could easily be confused with the speaker who is therefore also probably white and male.

To boot, the so-called fast-running character's pants are described as "long," which makes me question, "how long?" Are these pants longer than his legs? Where did he get them and were they custom made? Or maybe does he have unusually short legs that would make normal pants simply appear long, consequently the reason for the seemingly redundant adjective? Should the word "pants" be taken literally? Perhaps not.

Lastly, I notice the repetition of the phrase, "I think," by the speaker. I have no idea why this is important yet.

Late-teen Polish supermodel speed-walking with second-grader brother; he says "hey, big guy" when I pant past them, eyeing his sister.

Emphasis on race once again! Is there a significant correlation between race and the speed of walking? And why were the Latinos on bikes? To suggest inferiority?

Also, we discover that the speaker is most likely physically large, out of shape, and hetero -- if not bi -- sexual.

Three miles, twelve laps, not sure how long it takes. 

We're back to caveman talk again. I believe in this sense, the speaker represents Every Man. Also, this is the first observation in a long time that doesn't point out race. This analyst's mind, like the speaker, is doing laps in search of why.

Wanted to quit on the eleventh lap, but made it to twelve. 

This suggest, perhaps, that Man has reached his limit and realizes that he, as compared to the Christ-like figure doing yoga and ejaculating from her ears, must absolutely accept his separation from God. This is a modern Eden, people. How very Pope-esque.

Walking home, past the bar, don't know anyone smoking, no one sees me sweat. 

I like the detail, "no one sees me sweat."

Busy street, intersection: there's an older car, a non-descript sedan, waiting at the red light.

The speaker's plight has come to an end. The epic hero answers his call to adventure. 

Eye contact is held for three seconds; it goes like this:

Prompting indicates something important is about to happen. 

First second: my hair all crazy with humidity, wind, sweat; short sleeves rolled over shoulders; shirt drenched, even the sides - he's a Polish man behind the wheel of an older car; 1950s jaw, slicked hair: he does a bump. 

"My hair all crazy" perhaps alludes to the short fiction, "My Hair is So Crazy," a story about the oppressions of an office job and the therapeutic release through the craziness of hair. Further, the man in the car is detailed as Polish, and is perhaps the father of the supermodel and brother seen earlier. What does the Polish guy see in our speaker's eyes? Does he know he wanted to fuck his daughter? And why Polish? 

Also, I haven't the slightest idea what "he does a bump," means.

Second second: I nod.

The speaker confirms, as if to say, "Yes, your daughter, I want to fuck her. I also want to murder your son for calling me 'big,'" and, "what exactly is 'a bump' which you apparently are doing?" 

Third second: the man in the car nods back. 

The Polish man silently affirms, "Indeed, I have a beautiful, fuckable daughter, but if you touch so much as a hair on her head, I will bludgeon you, sir. And that goes for my son as well. He only called you 'big' because he's young and innocent and had no idea that it would hurt your feelings. Plus, he has Down's Syndrome."

"What the fuck was that?" I think those exact words, walking on. 

The speaker wants to know just how the Polish man read his mind and subsequently how he then read the Polish man's mind in return. However, his concern seems not great enough to provoke further confrontation. On he goes.

"Why the fuck did I nod to the guy doing a bump at a red light, ten minutes to nine on a Friday night?" I think. 

Still, the great question plagues him. As if his mind and body had been inhabited by alien force (by the evil Latinos?), he re-ponders the limits of Man and concludes that he has no idea how he and the Pole made use of extrasensory powers. Perhaps, wonders he, Man is not just Man as Man has thought Man was after all?

"And why the fuck did he return my nod, nodding to acknowledge the nod?" I think.

Eureka! The secret revealed is to be Polish! Our speaker rejoices as he realizes that he, too, is from Poland. Hence, the reason he was able to correspond psychically. Equally, the supermodel had been aware of his dirty thoughts, which would explain why her brother, also naturally Polish and in on it, insulted him so. They were all supernaturally gloriously connected!

"Probably because I'm so freaking sweaty," I think. "And he's doing a bump." 

I still don't know what a fucking bump is.

"Or else he's an undercover cop, trying to stay up for the night shift?" I think.

Note: the tag, "I think," is used a total of nine times throughout this piece. This will be of utmost importance at some point probably. 

"Or he was meant to hit me if I'd only run eleven laps and called it quits?" I think.

Now, I find this particularly interesting because it suddenly reoccurs to the speaker that he, although Polish and highly superior, is still limited by mortality and still exists at an infinite distance from God.

"That's motivation enough," I say out loud, very quietly, then make it safely home.

Man's necessary acquiescence. Our speaker's hubris shall be forgiven.

Where I spend the night drinking thousands and thousands of sips of lemon-lime seltzer.

2 Corinthians 9 [6] Remember this: he who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly. He who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.

Man, once again, pushes the envelope . . . 

Until I burst in a mile-high spout of carbonated purity. 

And thus, is subjugated by further atonement. This is a classical ending to the nature of Man. Bravo.

Or I mean: where I write this.

Unless . . . 

Before enjoying an icy cream soda while watching the Mets' late-night broadcast from Dodger stadium.

Oh, okay. I get it. HAHA.