The Night Before I Left Him

3: 3

What met my eyes were dresses, all kinds of them.

Ones picked out with fine embroidery, ones that fell past the knee, ones cut close at the waist with slits, plain ones with no pattern at all. Everything.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Took out my phone and photographed them one by one.

Then closed the closet.

Turned and walked to the couch on the side, and lay down on it without much thought.

The couch was cramped and narrow, and with the two of them laughing on and on next door, I slept badly that night.

The next morning I got up early and changed.

Put on my shoes, ready to head out for my run.

But then Morris came out of the bedroom, still bleary with sleep.

When he saw me.

His hands paused, and a second later he lifted his wrist to check the time.

"How come you didn't wake me for the run today?"

Morris had always kept up his morning runs.

But the me from before never liked them.

Not until an illness three years ago, when the doctor advised me to fix my schedule and get more exercise after I was discharged.

After I came home from the hospital.

Morris started coaxing me into running with him in the mornings.

At first.

I was thoroughly unwilling.

But under his little encouragements, bit by bit, I somehow fell in love with running without even noticing.

Then, from some day I couldn't pin down.

Morris would run half the route with me, then take a call from Savannah, and say to me in a hurried voice:

"Savannah's got something urgent. You go on running by yourself first."

And every time, after my run, on the way home I'd spot him at the breakfast stall, Savannah sitting beside him.

The two of them eating, talking and laughing.

After long enough.

I'd even gotten used to the Morris who turned back halfway through and left.

"I want to run on my own."

The words done.

I reached out to push the door and head outside.

But Morris caught me by the arm, a trace of concern in his voice:

"All these years, I've always run with you. And it's still dark out. I don't feel right about you going alone. Wait for me to change and I'll come with you."

Watching his back as he walked away, for a moment I felt oddly unsteady.

"There, let's go."

Changed now, Morris smiled and held out his hand to me, wanting to hold hands the way we used to.

But I drew my hand back without meaning to, and walked outside as if I hadn't seen it.

Sure enough.

Halfway through the run.

Morris's phone rang again.

After he took the call, he turned to look at me, his face anxious:

"Savannah's got something urgent. Go on running by yourself first, I'll come catch up with you in a bit."

The dark stretched out all around.

Panting, I said softly:

"Morris, do you really have to go?"

But all he left me was his back as he turned and hurried off.

I pulled my eyes away.

Kept running.

When the run was over and I was walking home, I caught sight of two familiar figures standing side by side up ahead.

Right then.

Morris and Savannah were standing in front of the woman selling flowers.

Savannah looked through the bunches one at a time, holding each up for Morris beside her to see:

"Morris, which one do you think is prettiest?"

"None of them are as pretty as you."

The sweet line slipped right out of him.

Beside them the woman smiled and pointed to one of the bunches:

"Take this one. It means people in love will stay together forever. May you two young lovebirds be happy always."

I stood where I was.

Watching Morris and Savannah smile at each other, nothing in their eyes but the other.

No explaining, no denying.

As if this was simply how things had always been.

The downpour came all at once.

As if he'd seen it coming, Morris opened the umbrella in his hand and, without thinking, tilted it toward Savannah's side.

The two of them turned to leave, still talking and laughing.

And then their eyes met mine, standing there in the rain.