Running at dusk. Down by the bay, the buildings of Brickell Key reflected on the black water like a clown’s grease paint after a long night performing under harsh lights. The smell of tiki torches pungent and sharp in the air, ten paces, gone. Good music playing in my head space, and I leap up onto the broad cement retaining wall as the pavement ends and run along the outer perimeter of a waterfront construction site. I reach the end of the dark lot and leap down onto where the pavement begins anew, startling an old couple walking their labrapoodles. A flash of their surprised faces as I emerge from the shadows, and then they’re past, left behind as I continue my run.