The intersection of yearning and receiving is mapped to my shoulder blade. It’s a place I can’t touch, can’t soothe, but I can feel it, keen under my jersey as I go running. I am trying beat the cold front home, rising wind in my teeth and I am hung up at the light. It’s six lanes of screaming traffic and I am not planning on pushing it until I see the Flat Fix sign red and blue neon wheeling urgent. So I take the first three lanes, and then the second three lanes, and then I am two blocks away from where I can sit on the top of the stoop, press my tender shoulder against the house, feel its mass and warmth behind me.