Starting Line

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You wince, conceding this one race. My first victory in 20 outings against you. I'd celebrate with a victory lap, punching arms overhead with happy fists, dancing my best Rocky Balboa up the crunchy hills like grassy Philly stairs, but I'm too winded.

I bend, hands clasping upper thighs, gasping and smiling.

You didn't let me win. You're actually winded, too, holding your side like a hard-earned bruise. I'll take the victory. You can pick up dinner tonight.

Your gentle green eyes are sparkling gemstones, dazzling in the receding sun. Even as you press your eyelids closed and work to catch your breath, I study the lines that caress your beauty into wisdom. I was there for most of it, watching time work its small-hand like Michelangelo's chisel.

You have no idea. You take my breath away. Always have.

It's my fault. You opened the door for me, but I believed that you were too good for me, far more than I deserved. I dared not risk a window too. And so we missed it. Our window shut. And we slid into best friends, close as sisters.

Mostly I don't regret it. Just now and then, when you don't know how beautiful you are, which candidly is most of the time, and I find myself lingering in the sacrificed lands. If only.

Your long blonde hair strays from its tie to pool round your face, tendrils achieving successive yoga poses in concert with the careless wind. Your eyes chase the blending grasses across the moors, long ribbons performing a highland dance, all footwork and leggy, my eyes chasing after yours.

You pull your knees gently into your chest, hugging the ache into your heart like a wishbone, or a dare. And I'm reminded of the times I've been beside you, for the aftermath, stretching out the muscle memory. Forgive and forget. Then back you went, bravely facing into the wind, once more joining the race.

I waited in the wings, your wing woman. Proudly yours, someone who could be more than a weekend fix. More than just a tease and please and away with you. I stayed. Holding your heart in a tissue box when the worst of it blew through.

A stretch of imagination rides up within me, and I tackle the wild horse back into the barn. Your love is a time capsule I buried long ago, and far away. Out of reach. Somewhere I can find it. When it needs most to be remembered.

Invited, I join you, lying flat on my back beside you, lacking eight inches of your effortless length. We recover, together, eyes lined up, smiling with accomplishment and fatigue. We've earned this. We have all the time in the world, so we rest our limbs and our racing minds in the softish heather, taking free hits of cool fresh mountain air.

I notice how hard you're working to make sure I don't notice the pain lingers. How the pinch in your side has not subsided, although mine has.

So I do what I do, for you. Give you an out. I toss-across my water bottle as if you need a sip. My kindness is repaid with one of your smiles. Number 113. One of my favorites. The one that makes me believe we can fly.

This countryside breaks its splendor into shards rippling in all directions, as far as eyes can see, but it pales in comparison to you. You, in your gray tank, the one you borrowed from me and never returned, and those runner's skins in black and orange, simply breathtaking. Your mountains and valleys are my favorite snapshot.

I wish, just once, you'd think to kiss me. That you'd want that for us. That the idea would spark and you would slide generously, spontaneously, happily into me. That just this once you would give me a lifetime of memories in a single impulsive, impossibly irresistible kiss. And then, only fleeting seconds later, you could return to being you, and I, to being me.

We'd return to ourselves, the best version of us.

And you could live bright and exuberant knowing I'd loved you well, as lovers in our hearts, for that one perfect moment.

And I would recede into the me who puts her best friend first. I think I could be happy, truly, being the one who sees you clearest after you've drunk my hazelnut coffee without even a hint of remorse.

You're the best friend I've ever had. And that's everything. More than enough.

.

.

.

We lay side by side, watching clouds transform into starfish and red-nosed clowns and stagehand donkeys. And you're tell me your stats, and teasing me into accepting that it's a miracle I outran you, that it'll never happen again.

And whatever you aren't saying catches, a lump in my throat. I listen to you not telling me that, yes, something else is going on with you. You've always needed a long windup to release your curve ball.

As the afternoon slips on, silence stretches out between us. And I can feel it in my bones, how desperately you're stalling, pacing, searching for the words. So I make it easier. "You know, you can tell me anything."

"I know." Your eyes avert mine, seeking shelter from the sun.

"I'm not pushing."

"Course not. You never push. And I love you for that." You turn your chin toward me, but your eyes are on a sparrow. You reach a hand for mine, and I welcome your touch as the friend I love wholeheartedly.

"If you need time. Or not," I'm bumbling this. It's what I do. "I mean, I'm listening. Maybe we can catch the train this evening. Catch a play in the city?"

"The train?" Your smile tackles your thousand yard stare, but I feel I've lost you. "Yes, the train." You've driven miles away. Slow breathing, I see it happening now, not recovery, something else. And I'm getting worried. You've always been the strong one. The talkative, outspoken, wise-cracking one who never pulls her punches. And now you're scaring me with all this silence. Please, just spit it out. If you've met someone, I will be happy for you. I promise you. It'll hurt, but I can take it.

"I think," you say, hesitating for far too long, "I think I need... a second opinion. Specialist in London's available Wednesday. Will you come?"

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Copyright © 04/29/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.

Author's Note:

This piece is a tribute to several friends whose stories collectively contribute to and influence the details of this mostly true fiction. In the words of several women close to me, "Fuck cancer."