running man

We've been sitting at the diner for two hours now, as I check the clock on my phone and then take a sip of water and look at her, square in the eyes, as she explains to me that I can't run forever.
I ask her what she means.
"You're running."
"You are too," I say.
And she agrees with me because she knows its true.
For curiosity's sake we ask each other for a back story; a "what happened" spiel and let one another string out a depressing tale of misfortune. But the stories don't matter. Their content is only the painted color on the jagged surface of emotion we feel inside.
"You can't run forever."
And I tell her I know, and when I get tired I'll stop, but right now I have a lot of stamina.
And the waitress comes by again, for the fifth time tonight and asks us if we want more water and we take some- to cool the burning feeling of hot memories that make us both sweat with anxiety.
Running.
She was right. I was running. From a lot of things. From the people I had met, from the places I had been to, from the jobs I had left, from the cloths that I had stained, from the situations I couldn't handle.....
No, that's not right.
"Why do you run when you can handle anything?"
Because I don't want to handle them. Don't have the gut for it.
The diner was cool inside and that made no sense because it was cold outside. Surprisingly there were a lot of people sitting around us, talking, eating, having a good time. It was late, that's why I say surprising. The lights were bright inside, soaking the room in this harsh fluorescent white. My eyes were tired and the combination of sleepiness and brightness created for an odd feeling. I wanted to leave because of it, to get out of here, back into the dark where my eyes felt comfortable.
But...
I stayed. Pried my eyes open. Searched for power in fuel cells that had none and managed to somehow, somewhere, someway find some.