Simkha liked to run at the old track at dusk. She liked the cool, drizzly weather at First Oxford because it reminded her of crisp winter days back home in Tangiers. She liked the outdated rubbery running surface that reminded her of practice with her old track team. She felt secure with one or another women’s sport squad always training out on the central pitch. And when the new track and field lights made it impossible not to occasionally glance at the training athletes, she let herself enjoy a quiet, healthy appreciation of the fit young women at practice.

But Simkha had little mental capacity to appreciate anyone’s fitness that evening. She ran wearing the vacant look of preoccupation. She might have been crying, but if she was then her sweat covered up her tears. She ran herself to exhaustion. She was reduced to slow, shaky strides by the time she tripped over her own feet.

She looked like a caricature of somebody who tripped a lot. She had the kind of ungainly build that made you think "is that lady about to fall over” even when she was firmly seated in a chair. She moved like she kept forgetting she was as tall or as wide as she actually was.

She tried to correct her footwork, over-corrected, tumbled halfway through an accidental cartwheel, and fell over into a painful, bouncing crash.

She moaned, rolled onto her back, and harrumphed in frustration. She gritted her teeth and rubbed vigorously at her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, she saw people gathering around her. She recognized the three footballers who had been drilling together nearby. Oh, and they were saying something.

"Yai køge aue! Nue idday cør?" begged the enthusiastic footballer.

"Awn wue øss øndraft eunck? Yah yuedøt i’ sødin phløck,” insisted the wide-eyed footballer.

"Oweir buime rey yir. Pori Hawt en, luek, yai dawck," interjected the stoic footballer.

Simkha scrambled to catch up. Come on brain, she urged. Those were words. They are speaking. That was English. I know we speak English. Until finally—

”—said: are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Oh thank G*d, Simkha thought. Then she squirmed. “Ow. everything hurts.”

"Hey don't move that yet,” said the stoic footballer, stilling Simkha’s thigh with one hand.

“But it’s okay” said the enthusiastic footballer. “We can help you. We’re somatology students. Try to hold still. We’ll help you identify your injuries, test your range of motion, and bandage you up.”

Simkha stared at the trio, eyes shifting between them. They want...test...bandages? Eventually she gave a slow nod, her expression never betraying even a bit of comprehension.

The trio comforted and cooed at Simkha as they prodded along her body. They pressed specific areas gently-but-firmly and asked if she was in more or less pain. They helped her move each joint in isolation to test for unseen wounds. When Simkha couldn’t describe the sensations she was feeling, they gave her easy, yes-or-no questions to answer instead. They found she had scraped-up palms, skinned knees, abraded forearms, a bruised thigh, and some bruising over her ribs. Luckily, no breaks or sprains.

The stoic footballer left, then returned with a first-aid bumbag. She cleaned Simkha’s wounds and bandaged her up. The trio were very comforting while Simkha lay flat on her back, slowly blinking at them like a dope. The enthusiastic footballer reached out to help Simkha stand when Simkha widened her eyes and tilted her head slightly.

"Ohhh,” she said dreamily. “I know you. You're Good-Arms Jock. From the Jericho Café!"

Simkha looked on obliviously as the enthusiastic footballer suddenly froze. Then Simkha slammed her eyes and mouth shut, her face twisting in embarrassment. She might have flushed red, but you would not have been able to tell because she was still so flushed from her run. “I said that out loud, didn’t I,” she muttered. She cracked one eye open, braving a look at her rescuer.

Good-Arms Jock still held her hand out, offering to help pick Simkha up. But now Good-Arms Jock wore a shit eating grin. She winked at Simkha and asked "so… you like my arms then?"

Simkha looked away. After a moment she took Good-Arms Jock’s offered hand anyway, two fingers stretched up towards the other woman’s admittedly good arms. Simkha sputtered and stumbled to standing.

"Look, I just want to say that I am still in pain and I am having a hard day… But, also, yes. You do have nice arms. Even if I should not have tried to name you after them.”

"It's too late. You’ve spoiled her forever." The wide-eyed footballer threw a friendly arm around Simkha’s hunched shoulders. "She is never going to answer to any other name ever again."

Simkha stared at her feet. She opened and closed her mouth, failing to produce a sound. Her deep flush did not lessen. She glanced up and saw Good-Arms Jock flexing goofily for her friends. She looked away as the trio burst into guffaws.

“Uh, I guess I’m… sorry about ruining your friend?” tried Simkha.

“Oh girl,” said the wide-eyed footballer, "you’re not the one who ruined her.”

“That’s right,” agreed Good-Arms Jock. “I have excellent self-esteem. But us three, like, always go to that caff together. Do these two get jock-based nicknames too?"

Simkha tried to light her own shoes on fire with just the strength of her gaze. She did not succeed. But she did become aware that her ankle had started to ache. Maybe she was still developing a bruise? Wait. What was she here for? She was reasonably sure someone had asked her a question.

Oh no. They were just staring at her, with occasional breaks to shoot knowing looks at each other. She squirmed in discomfort. Was it…? Nicknames?

"Oh G*d.” mumbled Simkha. “Do you, uh, do you two really want to know?”

"YES!” said the wide-eyed footballer. “So much. More than anything in the world.”

Simkha stared at her bandages and ran her hand along them. After a few seconds of desperately trying to calm herself, she glanced at the stoic footballer, then back to the question-asker.

"Well, uh, I guess I think of her as 'Leg Day.’"

Leg Day had worn a totally blank expression until now. But for the briefest of moments, the corner of her mouth twitched into a shape that almost reminded Simkha of a smile.

“Yesss, bitch!” cackled Good-Arms Jock. “Leg Day! Leg Day! Thighs of a Goddess!”

"What about meee-e?” begged the wide-eyed footballer. “I want a nickname too."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Well, uh, I kinda think of you as Jennifer. S-sorry. We had, um, Intro Archeology together."

"Nooo-o,” whined Jennifer, “Fuck me. I'm too studious for my own good!”

"Lame-e," chuckled Good-Arms Jock.

Leg Day reached over and flicked Good-Arms Jock on her ear. "No. Bad jock. Spray bottle emoji."

"Owww! What? Why did you do that?"

"Ableism," said Leg Day.

"Ugh, nooo-o.” Good-Arms Jock clasped her hands protectively over her ears. “I thought people with like, actual fucked-up legs said it’s fine to call bad things lame?"

Oh G*d, did I make them fight? Simkha twitched as Leg Day leaned in and jabbed a raised finger at Good-Arms Jock.

"Corey said it’s ableist. And Corey always looks this kind of thing up. Or she asks someone in the community if the answer isn’t clear.”

“Ugh, but are you sure?” whined Good-Arms Jock. She tried to swat away Leg Day’s raised finger.

Simkha squeaked, then cleared her throat. "Do, um, do you guys mean Corey Paleopolis?” she asked. "Because I know her mom has one of those, uh, blade-leg things. If that counts."

Leg day raised an eyebrow at Good-Arms Jock. Good-Arms Jock pouted. Simkha looked back-and forth between the jocks and then down at her own feet.

“Sorry,” said Simkha. “I didn’t mean to—”

Good-Arms Jock smiled and shoved Simkha on the shoulder.

“Oh my god it’s okay, girl. I can just pick a different word. We’re not really fighting. Like, thank you for helping us know things. I fucking love knowing things. But maybe we should turn back to the whole injured-girl-needs-help question. You still look fucked up. You have a flat in the Jericho neighborhood, right? Near the caff? How about we help you walk home?”

“Oh,” said Simkha. She shifted left and right and left again, then turned her eyes down. “Look, you-you’re all so nice. But you all are here to train. I’ve already been a bother. I don’t want to make it any worse. I fall and injure myself like once a month so this is actually pretty mild compared to what I usually do. I’m sure I can make it home alone just fine.”

“Hmm,” said Good-Arms Jock. She lowered her head and tried to catch Simkha’s eyes. She gave up after a few seconds of failure. “I’ll give you two options. If you just don’t want us to help you for the sake of your privacy then that’s, like, fine. Don’t share anything you don’t want to share. No offense taken, no worries. But you’re, like, standing like you think you take up too much space. And, like, you’re not. And you’re not being a bother either. I know we only kind of know each other, but I am having way more fun talking with you than I would if we were doing the training our captain told us to do. And you’re being too cute and fun to tease. So if you don’t want us to take you home because you think we don’t want to take you home… then stop worrying. Don’t minimize yourself. If you let us take care of you then that’s, like, basically feminism.”

Simkha shrank in on herself. Was she... trembling? No, she straightened her posture. The jocks exchanged looks. Simkha took a few ragged, anxious breaths. “I-I-I, um, I—” she sputtered.

“Oh shit, we actually are nosing in on your privacy,” said Good-Arms Jock. She lowered her eyes and twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I’m like, so sorry. I was being presumptuous. And clearly you need a little space. And I know we can be a—”

“No!” interjected Simkha. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, but she definitely wasn't trembling now. She lifted her head just enough to see the jocks. She blinked wide, shining eyes.“W-wait. You were right. You had everything spot on. I’m just a really anxious person. P-p-please help me get home, yeah?”

Good-Arms Jock’s expression relaxed into a wide grin. She popped over to Simkha’s side and braced her with an arm. “We’d love to! Let’s just head towards Jericho and you just tell us when it’s time to turn. C’mon, ‘Leg Day!’ You get our new friend’s other side, and Jennifer will be our tour guide tonight.”

Simkha rearranged herself between the jocks’ arms and let them take pressure off her bruising ankle. They tentatively began to limp towards the edge of the track.

“I-I really want to say thanks for this. I owe you all one. I kind of struggle to talk to people, normally.“

“Of course, new friend. We all know how bad sport injuries can be. You looked kind of a mess on the track, no offense.”

Simkha smiled just a little, her eyes still wide.

“So, um, you called me ‘new friend.’ If I’m a new friend, then… do I get a nickname too? Or maybe I’m not supposed to ask?”

“Oh my god, you’re two whole messes,” chuckled Good-Arms Jock. “Normally, I’d point out that you made up the other nicknames. But we actually have talked about you before. We noticed you around town.”

“We did,” agreed Leg Day.

Oh no. Oh G*d. She knew this would be bad news.

“You might not remember this” said Jennifer, with a performative intonation, “but you and I actually took Intro Archeology together. So, because of what I heard in that module, we’ve been calling you ‘Simkha.’”

“But that’s not a nickname at all,” said Simkha. “Oh,” said Simkha.

“Yeah, kinda makes you wish you got a nickname too, right?"

Simkha blushed just a little bit. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But you must have a good memory. That module was a while ago, and we never talked. That was my first year here, and I kind of made flash cards so I could memorize all my classmates’ names.”

“Actually,” interjected Leg Day, “Jen couldn’t tell if ‘Simkha’ was your given name or your family name in that module. She thought names might work different in Amazigh Culture, and she had to beg me and Arms over there to figure it out for her. So I think that’s why she remembered your name. And why it’s actually us two who deserve the credit.”

“Oh my god, you jerks.” sulked Jennifer. She turned red and covered her eyes with her hands. “Well… I still want my own jock name!”

Simkha felt her gaze shift to the middle distance of its own accord. She realized her face was hot. She struggled to put a lid on her expression, but whatever her face was doing seemed to be about half a second faster than she was.

Leg Day’s even gaze never left Simkha. “What is it? Did I say something wrong? Like, something racist, or bigoted?”

“Not really. It’s just…” Simkha hesitated for a moment. But would Leg Day have asked if she didn’t want to know? Maybe Simkha was just making her uncomfortable, and that’s why she said what she said? Ah, fuck it.

“So English Tangiers is legally Amazigh—but the culture is actually totally distinct, even after the fall of old England—so we count as our own tribe in the Tamazgha Senate—but Anglo-Amazigh names are pretty similar to the rest of the English Diaspora—so they all sound like ‘Konstantisse’ and ‘Lella-Louise’—but my name is actually Jewish, so I don’t have a family name anyway—but my family is Judeo-Amazigh, so as a woman I get a Matronymic instead of a Patronymic.”

Simkha flushed. She said too much. Why did she always say too much? Did Leg Day look overwhelmed? Did Good-Arms Jock and Jennifer look bored? All of their expressions had... changed. This is why I can’t be trusted to hold up a whole fourth of a conversation.

“So…” said Leg Day. “you’re Jewish, and that means your last name is like ‘daughter of your mom?’”

“Y-yeah. Well, it’s my specific kind of Jewish that does it that way.”

“Huh. So what’s your matronymic?”

“Batouri. But my Uni paperwork all miss-spells it as Battouri, with two ‘T’s. And I think that might look cooler anyway.”

“Cool,” said Leg Day. “Thanks for the explainer.”

Good-Arms Jock shared a look with Jennifer.

“Anyway, I wanted to get back to something you mentioned earlier. Simkha. Simmy. Simmamon Bun. Babe. What actually happened today? Right after you gave me my perfect new name, you said you were having a really bad day. Is that why you pushed yourself too hard on the track?"

Simkha drew her brows in. Very impressively, she did not burst into tears. She thought for a few seconds as she limped along after Jennifer.

“Well, uh, I guess the first thing you need to know is that I’m a huge fuck-up. And today, I invented a whole new way to fuck up an exam. I-I think I can tell you about it. But could I have a few minutes to gather my thoughts, first?”

“Of course, babe. In the mean time, let me get your mobile number so I can send it to the girls.”

Simkha gave the girls her number. Did she feel okay that they were taking her home? She was too exhausted to tell. Was she being stupid because she was tired? She didn't think it was normal for people to be this nice. What if they were grifters? Con artists? No, no, no. She was the one who fell, and they had done nothing but give the help they offered. She struggled to believe they really noticed her around town enough to talk about her before. She would have to be insane to think they would bother to plan a way to grift her. So... they were probably genuine. But how much would they want to know about her exam fuck-up? She didn't know how to explain what happened. They'd definitely arrive at her flat before she managed to communicate half of the story. Was her flat even ready to have guests over? Oh fuck. Oh G*d. Why did she have to like these people?