You tell me I have ugly feet. You tell me this the first time we make love on your bare bed, the mattress scratching my spine. You tell me this with a playful grin, a coyote emerging into the desert night.
“I’m a runner,” I say.
“You have blisters all over your heel.” You run your hands over my calves.
“I’m a runner,” I repeat.
You live in a cabin along the river, and when the rain hits your tin roof it sounds like pennies being spilled onto pavement. I learn to love rickety floors and the smell of fresh dew. I drive almost half an hour to your section of the woods just to see you. To touch you. I listen to a John Denver CD and convince myself it’s worth it.
My mother assumes I’m a lesbian. It can be the only explanation as to why she has never met my lover. You find stories of my mother amusing. I describe her to you while we are fishing on your little boat. I hate fishing, hate splicing the squirming worm on the hook and watching the fish gasp for breath. But I adore how excited you get when the bobber dips underwater as if you are a child catching fireflies on a summer evening. You laugh about my suburban life and how I must always hide my feet in high-heeled pumps.
At night, you make a fire in your backyard. It clings at the warm air, fizzles, and pops. We talk until the moon is blanketed by clouds and our beer bottles are weightless. Then, we stare at the flames, hypnotized by their desperation.
“Why do you run so much?” you ask, breaking my gaze from the sparks.
“I feel free,” I respond.
When I leave in the morning, my clothes still smell of smoke. A reminder that somewhere, among rooted trees and dirt paths, you are real.
My one friend introduced me to a tall, sophisticated man at an office party. He was nice, asking what I was interested in, and I mentioned I was obsessed with following fox tracks along trails. He smiled and excused himself.
I have thought about bringing you into my quaint, clean life, but I think you might disappear. You belong among dust and dark leaves, with your rough beard and pebble green eyes.
At dawn, before you wake, I walk outside. Here, in the quiet forest, is where I feel most alive. I begin to run, my heart thumping to the rhythm of my strides. I am not the woman who wears pearls and sits at a desk. I am not wild and rugged, like you.
I am the tightening of hamstrings. The burn in my thighs. I am a feeling, a sensation. I will be beside you when you open your eyes, and you will think the sweat is from fucking. I’ll hide my feet under the sheets, a secret that I carry between your world and mine.