Dishes by Rich Wallace 
Hardcover, 2008 

I yank my grungy T-shirt over my head-it's greasy and soapy and so is my hair-and put on my spare one that says MORRISTOWN STATE TRACK. 

I slip out the back door while Hector's in the bar room. 

So what do you do on a Wednesday after midnight if you're not old enough to go to a bar? 

The night is bright and I'm nowhere near sleepy, so I walk past the darkened shops and turn toward the Marginal Way, the footpath that twists above the rocks for a mile or so along the surf, which crashes and froths just below. 

I'm not used to all that mental bombardment you get in a bar; I'm at my most centered when I'm working out at top effort. Then when I crash at night-physically ehausted but still sort of wired-that's the only time I'm wishing I had someone to relate to. Someone who could relate right back to me with muscle and energy and release.