Night Running

The city sleeps, but I don't.

I've taken to running at 2 AM, past the closed storefronts and flickering streetlights, my sneakers hitting pavement in a rhythm that almost drowns out the thoughts. Running until my lungs burn, until my legs tremble, until I'm too exhausted to feel anything else. It's been three months since Sarah left, and somehow the apartment feels larger without her, even though I'm the only one there.

Her cat, a siamese she named Bear because he'd sprawl on the bed like a hibernating animal, waits by the door. He still looks at me like I'm temporary. Maybe I am.

My iphone buzzes against the nightstand — my friend Mark, checking in again. "You okay, man? Haven't seen you at the gym." I type out a response, delete it, type another. The truth is I'm not okay, but how do you explain that the silence is louder than any fight you ever had? That you Bear the weight of someone's absence like a stone in your chest?

Tonight I ran six miles before stopping, bent double with hands on knees, staring at my own sweat dripping onto the asphalt. The bodega on the corner glows like a beacon. The guy behind the counter knows me now. "The usual?" he asks, and I nod, trading a crumpled five for a cheap six-pack I probably shouldn't drink.

Bear meets me at the door, weaving between my legs, purring like he hasn't seen me in years. I crack a beer and sit on the floor, letting him curl into my lap. The phone lights up with another message from Mark: "Drinks tomorrow? I'm worried about you."

I set the phone face down on the table. In the morning, I'll respond. I'll say I'm fine, I'll say I'm just busy. We'll both pretend it's true. But tonight, in the dark with nothing but the cat's steady heartbeat and the taste of cheap beer, I can finally stop running.

The bear of a memory I've been carrying doesn't feel lighter, exactly. But somehow, holding it, I feel like I might finally be strong enough to stand still.