I step into the living room where the Blacksmith and the Midget are watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m red faced, you can probably hear my breathing from the sofa, and I’m wearing running shorts and a top I was kindly given after running 10km a few years ago.
“How far did you get?” the Blacksmith asks.
“5.8.”
There’s a moment of thought, and then he beams and starts excitedly saying how I’m getting to a good bit. I’m thinking 5.8km isn’t that impressive, especially since he knows how long I’ve been out since he passed me in the car as I was running up the hill. I look at the Midget.
My sister, always the chemist, corrects my absent units by clarifying that the Blacksmith is talking about seasons and episodes and I’m talking about kilometres.
“Oh, Buffy? I’m still on the second season.”
The Blacksmith looks surprised, confused and disappointed.
Despondently, the Midget explains: “She doesn’t binge.”
It comes across in a tone that suggests that there’s something alien about me, something terribly dysfunctional about me. The Blacksmith looks at me and back at the Midget as if wondering if the two of us are related.
“No, I don’t,” I say, contemplating that there was that one time when the Midget and I watched four episodes of Star Trek back to back…