Step, Step, Breath
By Del Shannon

It remained unseen in the morning mist, traveling at speed through the trees. A poet would have taken five lines to describe the figure, breathing in sync with his strides, taking a particular interest in the mingling of his sweat with the drops of mist that were marshalling on his forehead. At least this is what the runner told himself as he ran. Another lie to keep his legs moving despite their burning.

But there were no poets lurking in the trees this evening. The only sound, save the quiet drips falling from the broad-leafed plants, was his own rhythmic breathing and his footsteps padding along the trail. At this pace it was two strides per breath. Step, step, breath. Step, step, breath. Like a noisy clock in need of a kind hand.

He was thankful for July, when the mist didn’t sting his face. November’s moisture was angry, barking without the luxury of good manners at the approaching cold. The rains of March were better but still held the bitterness of a long winter. But in July the moisture – even as slight as this – was happy, even mirthful.

He smiled at this. He must be running too fast, pushing his pace and denying his brain of oxygen as he rummaged through his memories of rain. Wasn’t there anything better to think about? He immediately regretted the question.

What had it been now, two years? Rebecca had left for no better reason than a job. She hadn’t even bothered to lie to him when they sat in the café, shared a last drink, and broke the news. Three days later she was gone. It was the only time he could remember begging. “Please don’t go,” he managed to plead between sobs at the window of her car. She smiled, full of pity, said goodbye, and drove away. He remembered, again, why he ran.

Rain was better to remember than Rebecca.

He tried to blame her but found he couldn’t. Despite what his friends would say he knew he wasn’t handsome. They were never good at lying. When he looked in the mirror he saw a short, overly thin man with stubby legs, a small chin that hinted at inevitable jowls, and a chest that barely wrinkled the fabric of his shirts. Not anyone’s vision of manliness.

He never thought a woman like Rebecca would look twice at him. Her hair was the color of autumn and smelled like the mist that he now wiped from his eyes. She was fair skinned and made fruitless attempts to hide behind broad hats and layers of clothes when the sun was out. But by the end of the day her hats and light sweaters would always come off, baring her small shoulders, and she would swim through the sunlight. He loved her best when she lost these walls, when she left her sensibilities and drank from the moment.

The trail rose and fell to his feet as he ran on and he pictured her face and the curve of her chin where it blended into her neck. The hollow made at the junction of her collar bones. The backs of her knees when she wore short skirts.

“You make me laugh,” she answered in the middle of their second month together when he gathered the courage to ask her why she sat across from him now.

“Thank God. For a second I though you were going to say it was my rugged manliness. My machismo if often too much for most women,” he said. Another joke designed exclusively for her as an exit to the awkward moment. Still he knew, right then, that she would one day leave. One day he wouldn’t make her laugh.

He slunk back to his mistress – running – and endured her chiding for hoping to believe there was anyone else in this world for him.

Step, step, breath. Stay with me. Step, step, breath. Stay with me.

It was better alone, with his mistress, he reasoned as he crested the last rise and filled his nose with the scents of heavy earth mixed with the mist. His unseen home was four minutes ahead.

Maybe he would call Rebecca tonight, to tell her that he was well just in case she was wondering. Yet he knew she didn’t worry for him. One letter from her in two years had cured all fantasies of her misery and regret.

Step, step, breath. Step, step, breath.

Tomorrow he would send her from his heart he concluded as he crossed from the trails and onto the cold pavement where islands of shiny light clutched to the base of the light poles. Tomorrow she would leave.

He saw his front door now, as nondescript as he was, and quickened his pace. His mistress always demanded a strong finish. His breathing quickened to match his strides. Step, breath, step, breath, step, breath…

Tomorrow, he would again travel at speed through the trees where even a poet wouldn’t be able to see where the mist stopped and his tears began.