The one run

There are many numbers that you have a hard time calculating. How many times gave you ordered pizza, how many bands have you seen play, how many episodes of law and order have you watched? There is one number that you have no problem calculating. That number is how many times have you gone running with the woman who is now your wife. The easy to calculate number is one. You have gone running with the woman who is now your wife exactly once. It was a grey Sunday morning in Vancouver. You spent the night at her place, where you have been spending more and more nights, both weekends and weekdays. This run has come about because you know that she runs. That she likes to run. And you have heard of this thing called running, so perfect! What could possibly go wrong? The other thing you know is that she likes to run with her friends, L and S. You have met both L and S. They are women, they are little, and you imagine that they must run like deers in meadow glen, smooth, their feet barely touching the ground, soundless as a gentle breeze. But you. You are not a woman. You an extra large individual. You run like a drunken moose, loud, snorting, sweating, drooling, occasionally spitting, every once in a shile clearing your nose by placing your forefinger against one nostril then blowing hard with the other. You finish your run. The rain holds off. You opt to go out to breakfast before returning to the apartment. The restaurant is warm. The coffee is hot. The eggs cooked perfectly over easy ooze all over your plate. Look I have something important to tell you, she says. Looking you straight in the eyes. fuck you think, she’s breaking up with me. How can she? We just went running. It was only your first one together. There were so any more to come. You were to see first light in Paris and London, New York and Milan, Moscow, Tokyo and Rome; the two of you, running the cobblestones streets, with just the shoes on our feet and our room key in our pocket; breezing past those starting their day in the dark and those who haven’t yet finished from the evening before. Look, she says, what I am about to say it’s not personal, okay. Shit you think, it’s really true. She’s really going to break up with me right here. And, you don’t know what to say. What’s left to say? It seems like she had already made up her mind. And you know what’s coming next, “your a great guy. There is a women out there who will be so lucky to have you. It’s not you. It’s me.” You hear yourself saying “okay” and fell yourself nodding your head slightly. “ I like being with you but I hate running with you. Let’s not do that anymore.” And you feel yourself smile. “What?” She asks. “Why are you smiling like that?” I don’t know you say. “Okay” she says, and gives you this weird look to indicate she’s confused but in a tone that riddled with invitation to say more. So you open your mouth but stuff it with a forkful of easy over eggs instead. “So we’re good she says. “ Better than good you say” . You drop your visa on the bill which always arrives early,before you ask for it, as the restaurant is known for turning tables at light speed. “Great “ she says. After the eggs are gone from her plate and yours, and the coffee cups are empty for a second time. I have something important to ask you, you say. She straightens a little. “Okay, fire away” she says . “Want to run home?”