Saturday Novel: An Indian Dinner

It's been a little over a month since I posted any on this year's imaginary novel. I thought I'd shift it to Saturdays. So here's a pulse...
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The morning run was grueling. Quirk had to be at least ten years older than he was, but he made Alan feel like he was fifty pounds overweight and a chain smoker. He deliberately stayed with Alan the whole time to push him.

The watch that Fox had given him also kept track of how far he had gone. When they passed three miles, he asked Quirk how far they were going to run that morning.

"We all run at least ten kilometers a morning," he said, "a mere six point two miles by uneducated measure."

Alan had a little extra adrenaline, but his time was clearly unremarkable for this group: forty-five minutes. He felt pretty much done for the day by the time he returned, although somehow he suspected there would be more to do that day.

When he got back to his room, he found a book on his bed, Philosophical Investigations by Ludwig Wittgenstein. On the front was a sticky note that said, "Lalbagh at 7.30."

"What's the Lalbagh?" he said to himself, looking around the room for someone to listen. The handwriting looked to be Fox's, at least from what little Alan had seen.

A quick search revealed that it was a quaint Indian restaurant. He would have liked greater clarity, but he took from the context that he was expected to read this book and discuss it that evening.

It wasn't a normal book where there's a clear line of thought and chapters that moved from topic to topic. It was more like a collection of thoughts that wandered over a wide range of subjects. It reminded him a little of a book in the Bible he had studied at school: Proverbs.

Some of the book interested him. Other parts didn't. He fell asleep for about an hour after a quick lunch in the Peterhouse Hall. By the time 7 rolled around he at least felt like he had a few thoughts he might share.

He arrived to find one of the women who had run that morning standing just inside the door waiting as well. "Ridley, is it?" he said.

"Yes. Alan, right?" It was a British accent, but it had a hint of something else, maybe Spanish?