Running Woman 8

It was a perfect day to run from love texts, a professor's Mavis invitation, calls from Mr Marketing. The crunching of the leaves louder than A Summer Wind martini or the Go Baby Go blasting in my ear. I ran from two lonely, English women, whose world of books and a boy could no longer contain them. I ran from the crepes party, compliments of a real Frenchman, the shoe designer, who runs to Italy to find herself running back, and the artist whose wife simply wasn't there. All the runners were, so I ran, too, faster than the scandalous Sunday green. When does it fall?