The Bitch Hunter's Quarry

I was out for a morning run recently. About a mile in, I encountered a fit, trim young man moving up hill in the opposite direction. I waved and called out, "Mornin!"I intended this not only as a gesture of common courtesy, but also as an outward signal that, while we may not belong to the same tribe, we at least belong to friendly and familiar tribes, we brethren of the early morning run. 

He did not reciprocate. 

Benefit of the doubt. It's my default stance when evaluating interpersonal interactions. "Maybe the angle of the sun precluded his ability to see my gesture," I thought. "Maybe his earbuds were cranking out music at too high a volume for him to hear me." Even, "he was moving a pretty fast clip. Maybe he put every ounce of energy into keeping up that pace." 

I discontinued my rumination and completed my out leg. I turned around two miles later and headed for home. The young man must have done likewise, as I encountered him again moving in the opposite direction. Again, I waved and called out, "Mornin'!". 

He responded this time by making a finger gun and pointing at me. I felt briefly vindicated in my persistence and insistence on not writing the young fellow off. But, then I thought, "maybe it's not so much that he rediscovered his manners and returned my courtesy....maybe he's the Bitch Hunter and I am his quarry."