Every time I leave Esbly, I am running. There are two ways to look at this.

Good
I am running to something not from something.
Bad
The last train is at 9 (and that is the one I run to).
Good
It's difficult to pull myself away from bright Emilie.
Bad
I always almost miss the train.
Good
I've always arrived just in time.
Bad
One day, my luck will end.
Good
It's a nice little workout.
Bad
Somehow, I've always just eaten.

After a Saturday chatting, crafting, sitting by the fire, and an evening watching a movie and baking pizza with Emilie in Esbly, I glanced at the clock mid-bite, hoping that God had slowed the time down that evening. 20:44. nope. I rapidly thanked Emilie for the afternoon, heartily wishing (perhaps too heartily) I could've helped clean up, and headed out the door. Knowing I had somewhere between 7 and 10 minutes to catch the nine o'clock, I settled for a manageable jog rather than the lung-tearing sprint of two weeks ago after a thrift market cruelly tempted me from the straight and narrow. Though I strolled the last 30 meters, I still entered the train car with the accustomed labored breathing. Mounting the stairs—I always sit in the upper level—I joyfully realized something to add to my short list of Why Cold Weather's Good: I'm not boiling in sweat under my coat.