The first six miles felt almost gentle. Sunrise turned the river gold. Amy’s stride remained relaxed. We spoke in complete sentences. At mile two, she asked about my ten-mile run.
“Did you decide whether crossing was success?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“You wanted yes?”
“I wanted you not to turn it into a verdict.”
“Rose has changed you.”
“She is contagious.”
“What did it feel like after?”
“Ordinary. Then emotional. Then hungry.”
“Useful sequence.”
“I ate three eggs.”
“Also useful.”
At mile four, Amy checked her watch. Then looked away.
“What?” I asked.
“Pace is slower than the initial projection.”
“Good.”
“I know.”
“You sounded almost sincere.”
“I am saving energy.”
“Growth through fatigue.”
At mile six, Miguel waited beside the trail. The transition point arrived too soon. I wanted to continue. The desire was not professional. Not necessary. Simply wanting to remain beside her. Amy saw it.
“You can stay one more mile,” she said.
Miguel looked at the plan. I shook my head.
“No.”
Amy’s eyebrows lifted.
“I want to,” I said. “That’s why I’m stopping.”
She understood. The boundary was for me. Not her. I hugged her.
“Your race.”
“Not a race.”
