Jolt

Her body is in flow, her strides liquid and easy. This is the home stretch. On her right, the river shimmers in the first sunlight of the day. On her left, an early train honks as it trundles past. This is her precious time. As soon as she gets back, her wife will ask where the coffee is, and her daughter will need jostling out of bed, and the whole house will clamour to life. 

There is another benefit to going on her run so early. It avoids the clattering cyclists and meandering lovers. For the first time in as long as she can remember, today began in beautiful solitary synchronicity. The river is her benevolent competitor. It whispers challenges and encouragement. She is determined to get to the bridge before it does. When she wins, it will glitter a smile at her, and her day will advance in an explosion of joy.

*

He stares into the darkness. Insomnia. He knows he’ll regret not getting any sleep. He knows he should try something to send him off. Too much feeling. It’s almost dawn anyway. He rumbles out of bed. She doesn’t stir. Thank God for that. He turns off the alarm. Still an hour before it goes off. He gets dressed as quietly as he can. Please, he thinks, just stay sleeping over there. Or at least pretend for the both of us.

He doesn’t have a plan. What is he going to do at this hour? He can’t watch TV. He doesn’t want to read. He can’t even make coffee. That would wake the dog. When the dog wakes, there will be no stopping the noise. He tiptoes downstairs.

The dog barks.

*

She dashes through Paul Klee shadows cast by the trees. A disgruntled duck bursts from the bushes and flaps into the water. She is past in a flash. She is ready to take off, almost in flight. One bend up ahead and then the bridge. The finish line is marked by a messy clump of inquisitive snapdragons. The river and her are neck and neck. She strains for advantage.

There is talking around the bend. A man on his phone, out of sight. Why come all the way out here to this magical path just to natter on your phone? Her feet are pounding. Her light dexterity is gone. She feels each step as a shock through her shins. Her paradise morning has been invaded. She knows it’s selfish, but during these daybreak adventures the path is supposed to belong to her.

She heaves around the corner. There he is, the unwelcome tourist. He stands on the bank of the river, one arm gluing his phone to his ear, the other punching-flailing out over the river. The snapdragons are waiting ahead. At least he’s not in the way. She pushes herself, giving it all to the sprint finish.

Her right foot lands. It slips on something but her left foot is already in motion. Instinctively she tenses, fighting to maintain balance but she’s not quite in control. Her left knee sails through the air, remaining bent. It slams into the ground ahead of her.

A snapshot in time. Snapdragons in agitation.

It all happened in clear focus but outside her control. She realises that her hands are stretched out to either side, like some ridiculous Olympic performance.

It takes a moment for her to come back to herself. Her knee doesn’t hurt. Not yet. She gets to her feet. Everything is in adrenaline sharp-focus. A dog is barking. Her knee is sticky. Like mud, but there’s no mud on a clear day like this. She wipes her knee and peers at her fingers. Not blood then. Dog poo.

The man is coming over. His call must have ended. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he bellows, “Terrifying my dog like that.”

She does not reply to this. The dog is still barking somewhere. The sun glints of his shiny head. He has fat ankles. His feet are turned out awkwardly. Bad posture.

His tirade continues. “What was that anyway, some gymnastic crap? Do it in your own home, you stupid woman. Don’t bother people. This is a public space. I should call the police, you know.” On he goes, but it’s just a wash of sound to her now.

She looks at him. Really takes him in. He’s a misshapen tomato with a tumorous growth for a head. There is no point in engaging with him. She knows his type. He will shout, scream and throw his toys everywhere. Any response will be met with escalated volume and profanity until she backs down. She feels the impulse for violence building. She will tip the bloated blob into the river. Good riddance if he gets some disease from the water. His little dog will be next. Where is the yappy little thing anyway?  

He’s still jabbering on. She’s not been paying attention. “I think I might be bleeding,” she says.

“What?”“Bleeding. After slipping in your dog’s poo. All over the middle of a public path.”“Oh don’t be so melodramatic. You should look where you’re going –“

“What’s your name? And address. So I know where to have my lawyer send the papers.”

His mouth shudders. Hi nose appears to be on the point of popping like a tiny balloon. All she wants to do is grab his shirt and shove as hard as she can.

None of that. She walks past before he has anything more to say.

*

He had to get out of the house. That was his only thought – escape. Why else would he walk the dog? For God’s sake, they pay a local youth to do it – Cindy? Gabbie? Something “-ee”.

It’s not long before he’s wheezing. With the fireworks in his mind and the struggle for air, he pays no attention to where he’s going. The dog seems to know, pulling this way and that on some familiar path of the “-ee” girl.

All of a sudden, the river. He drops the leash. He goes to the bank. He closes his eyes. He breaths. Pollen makes him sneeze. He breaths. He sneezes. He begins to feel some small bit of calm. He sneezes.

His phone. The wretched harridan. He won’t be out long. Can’t she just leave in in peace for a few minutes? Under siege even here. Wife looms around him like a fog of gnats. He listens. He tries to speak. He feels himself bubbling over.

Behind him, a thud and a grunt. A sudden assault of barking causes him to jump. He drops his phone in the river. Blood is pumping in his ears, chest constricted, fists clenched. He’s shouting, words words words.

She’s walking past. She looks hurt. He begins to see things. The slick of dog poo. She’s limping. He tries to remember what he said, what he shouted. He is overwhelmed with shame.

He does not know how to apologise. He does not know how to go home.

*

She is not proud. Her friends will tell her she should be. They will congratulate her on putting down another member of The Patriarchy. ‘If I was there,’ one will say, ‘I’d have pepper sprayed him.’ Another will say, ‘Mate, I would have shoved him in the river.’

She is not proud. She came so close to bad behaviour. Even the lawyer putdown felt hollow. The truth is, she feels bad. What she wants is to sit down with him and explain how his bad behaviour affected her. But even then, what high ground would she have after threatening to sue him. For slipping on dog poo? Really?

This will sit with her for at least today. He will hover around that corner on future runs. She is already thinking of other places to run instead.

A determination builds. She will keep running her usual course along the river. It took her ages to find the perfect route. She’s not giving it up now. She won’t even change the time. If he comes back, he comes back. It won’t be the same. It won’t be perfect.

But it will have to be enough.