I threw down my keys and headed straight towards the bathroom, eager to wash away the grime and sleaziness that I felt layering my clothes from the diner. I turned on the taps, plugged the hole, and leaned against the sink. I tended to avoid looking in the mirror, especially after a long shift; no need to further depress myself. I knew I was a plain Jane: brown hair, brown eyes, and skin like a milk bottle despite my Arizona upbringing, but the late nights, early mornings, and constant mental fatigue was taking its toll. I knew I was destined for better things; I’d worked too damn hard to get out of Forks to only make it as far as a Seattle burger bar.
I’d worked at Burger-Rama for eight months now. The tips were pitiful, the clientele downright disgusting, and I was frankly shocked that Health and Safety hadn’t closed the place down years ago. I worked almost every night six till closing and studied for my Master's in English Literature during the day. I barely made enough money to cover my share of the rent and bills, which meant I hadn’t bought any new clothes since moving in and lived off salad and soup. In my gain, I had shed a few pounds.
Today had been a particularly bad day, I’d spilt an entire glass of Coke down my lap and didn’t have any spare clothes in my truck to change into, nor the money to do laundry. I’d hit my wrist on the door frame rushing out with an order, and it had progressively swelled ever since. On top of it all, I’d only earned $7.96 in tips. It looked like I was going to have to walk the eight miles to work next week to save on gas money.
I looked back at the bath that was now half full. Slipping off my vans and dipping my hand in to test the temperature, I quickly yanked it back out again. It was freezing. Clearly Rosalie had been and gone, using all the hot water in the process. It would be at least an hour before there was enough for a bath. Attempting to suppress my disappointment, I pulled at the plug and watched the water slowly drain away. I sat on the side of the bath and leaned my elbows on my knees, my locks tousling forward, shielding me in.
I could feel the sob sitting in my throat waiting to escape at the first sign of weakness. I knew it was stupid getting emotional over a bath, but it was just the catalyst. My life served no purpose, I didn’t help anyone. Hell, I didn’t even engage in interaction with anyone besides Rosalie. I’d never had a romantic interest in my 24 years and I was stone broke. I needed to run.
Running was my escape. I didn’t get to do it often enough but when I managed to fit it in, it wiped away all the shit that was going on in my life. For the entirety of the run, I could just concentrate on the trees whipping past, the thud of my trainers on the ground, and the racing of my heart. I’d discovered the cathartic nature running held for me one time Rosalie had dragged me to the gym with her.
My roommate was a leggy six-foot blonde with big blue eyes and a body that would earn her free entrance to the Playboy mansion with just a twirl. She was placed in the same dorm with me freshman year, and after a frosty start, we’d grown into each other and had lived together ever since. She was extremely loyal and stubborn and the only friend I had. Although that particular occasion had just showcased my tendency to cause physical damage to not only myself but those around me, I did enjoy my time spent on the treadmill. The hour flew by and it left me feeling energised, refreshed, and motivated. I knew I couldn’t afford a gym membership, so thought I’d try outdoor running instead.
It wasn't long before I started going daily, and I’d find myself eager to get home to change and get out, knowing the freedom from my thoughts was only moments away. Rosalie will sometimes accompany me, but I know she prefers the attention that her body and fitness level guarantees her at the gym. I hadn’t been in a few days due to pure exhaustion and the revision that was necessary for the tests coming up next week. I knew being over due on a run made me emotional, so I rushed to my bedroom to change. Throwing on some loose shorts and a tank, tying up my laces and hair, I grabbed my MP3 and headed out the door. I’d concentrate on my revision better afterwards anyway.
To some degree I knew I was in denial. Running was amazing; it did boost my mood, self-esteem, and fitness levels, and undoubtedly reduced my tension headaches. But the eagerness I felt for the run, the excitement to get to the park, and the maintenance of the behaviour was not solely due to the act itself.
The sun had long since set, but luckily Seward Park stayed open until 11. It was 300 acres of forest land right in the heart of the city of Seattle. It stretched out into the river like a teardrop and was uncommonly tranquil for an inner city park, constantly reminding me of Forks, my hometown for my last two years of high school when I moved to stay with my dad, Charlie. The night sky and scattered lanterns provided enough light to see where I was going, although I knew these trails by heart anyway. I knew it wasn’t particularly wise jogging through thick forest at night, but the paths were well frequented even at this time of night, and I’d yet to feel even remotely afraid when coming here. It was my haven.
As I entered the park limits and jogged through the trees towards the open space held within the encirclement of forestry, my heart began to pound. I’d only been jogging for fifteen minutes and hadn’t even broken a sweat, but my heart felt so light, it seemed a possibility it would fly right out of my chest. For as I broke through the line of trees, there was my saving grace, my comfort, my reassurance that everything would be ok, jogging on the opposite side of the green, iPod strapped to his bicep, and bronze hair bouncing with every step.
His powerful legs beat against the dirt floor and his white Nikes pounded the compact dirt. He wore small black jogging shorts, a simple white T shirt, and he rocked it. Nothing else was needed to make this man look more heavenly; it would be a crime to attempt to distract from his beautiful self. The muscles in his thighs and calves were taut and straining under his pale skin. His biceps caused the arms of his shirt to ride up a little, exposing more of that gorgeous glistering skin. He was fast, agile, and clearly in amazing shape, but from the sweat patch in-between his shoulder blades and soaking his chest, I knew he’d been here for a while. I didn’t have too long left with God. That was who I was convinced he was: God. My own personal deity sent to earth to allow me the pleasure of watching him run.
The first time I saw God, I had only been running a couple of times in this particular park, instead frequenting one that was slightly closer to the apartment. I say closer... it was across the road. But the first time I saw him, I knew I didn’t have my fill. I felt like a woman possessed, sure that the strain had finally taken its toll on my mental capabilities as I was unable to tear my gaze away from him. I set my pace and jogged behind at a distance, taking in his small waist, broad shoulders, and chunky thighs. The man was without a doubt a model. No other profession would have hired him for the pure fact that productivity would have plummeted - I’m positive not even the men would have been able to withstand ogling.
What solidified my God conclusion, however, was his hair: thick, slightly wavy, the colour of a shiny new penny, and in complete disarray. I’d never seen that colour on any other man, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t from a bottle. I had attempted to imagine how it would look on a day to day basis when not soaked through with his glorious sweat, but no other style would complete him in my mind as that which he portrayed at this very moment, completely carefree and calling me to tame it. In my mind, I quit my job at Burger-Rama and committed my life to the taming of God's hair. I was sure it was a full time occupation.
That was five months ago, and I had come back every night for three weeks until I discovered that he frequented the park between the hours of 10-11pm most nights, always alone with just an iPod for company. I wondered what he listened to.... Maybe a heavenly choir of angels?
I had envisioned our meeting countless times: me a damsel in distress with a strained ankle - which in truth wasn’t that far fetched - daydreaming and running directly into each other. This one often ended with our bodies tangled on the ground and quickly became graphic. Other times it would simply be him turning around, telling me he could no longer bare to see me every night and not know my name and then proceed to kiss the mother loving life out of me. Either one was fine by me; I wasn’t fussy.
I knew that he was the real reason I came jogging. The fantasies that ensued while running behind him gave me my release, lifted my mood, and although I left the park feeling disappointed that they hadn’t become a reality, I was also lighter knowing that whatever happened, I still had my God and there was always tomorrow…
