Wideload

By L.S. Kunz

I inch around Liberty Park’s loop road waiting for a car to pull out.

When one does, the stall is a tight fit between two trucks.

Shoehorning my sedan into the spot is like squeezing into my running tights all over again. I’m a wideload. This size spandex should require hazard lights.

The jogging path is crowded with runners. Not a wideload among them. All bullet bikes and sports cars. No way any of them recently got traded in for a younger model.

I don’t fit. Not in these tights. Not in this stall. Not in this life.

I wedge the door open and worm out of the car.

By the time I break free, I’ve broken a sweat. Now I’m a sweaty wideload.

A car door slams. A man emerges from behind the truck on the left. He has long legs and short shorts. His thighs bulge. But he’s no wideload.

He looks me up and down with a disarming grin. “Tight squeeze, huh?”

My hands shoot for my thighs. “They’re too small. I knew it. I—”

The man’s smile drains from his face along with the color. “No. I didn’t mean…. I’m sorry. I’d never. I meant the parking stall.”

My cheeks flush so hot they burn. “Sorry. I’m super nervous. This is my first time wearing these bad boys in public.”

The man’s smile returns. He wears it as comfortably as his skimpy shorts. “You shouldn’t worry. They’re a great fit.”

I scan my wideload legs. “Running isn’t for me. I’d have left already except I’m pretty sure I’m as incapable of getting out of this stall as I am out of these tights.”

The man laughs and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You should join my running group. We’re meeting up in”—he checks his watch—“right now.”

My hands are back on my thighs. “I couldn’t. I’d slow you down.”

He cocks his head toward a group stretching and laughing on the lawn. Bullet bikes and sports cars. Sedans and minivans. Maybe even a wideload or two. “You’ll like us. I promise. Please come. I’m new to this too.”

My hands find my hips. “You’re new to running?”

He smirks. “Not running. Flirting. My wife recently traded me in for a younger model.”

I swallow. Someone traded him in? But he’s a classic.

The man holds out a hand. “Come. You’ll fit right in.”

My hand is sweaty. You’re supposed to sweat when you run. Still…

“I don’t hold hands with a man until I know his name. It’s a rule I have.”

The man nods. “Sensible. I’m Ford.”

A smile tugs my lips. “Like the car?”

He laughs. “Unfortunately.”

I glance sidelong at the insignia on my sedan. “I like Fords. They’re reliable.”

Ford’s hand is a little sweaty too.

The crowd calls. “Come on, Ford! Bring your friend!”

My smile stretches into a wideload. Maybe Ford is right. Maybe I’ll fit right in.

🩷🩷🩷

L.S. Kunz lives in Utah with her husband. She is a member of the League of Utah Writers and has received awards for her short stories and middle grade fiction, including the Olive Woolley Burt Award. Her work has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The Last Line, Baubles From Bones, The Genre Society, Utah’s Best Poetry & Prose 2023 and 2025, and Winter Horrorland: An Undertaker Books Anthology.