#15 Dirt

Two submarine sandwiches sit at opposite ends of a small tall table in a deli, each with ample personal space from the other one.

You sit behind one and I sit behind the other, our bodies facing each other slouching forward. You occasionally look at my sandwich, then yours. I occasionally look at yours, then mine.

This morning, in the blinding sunlight outside your house, with my throat tight and a tingling feeling in the center of my abdomen, we exchanged words and agreed to lunch before I took off on my bicycle.

I rode four miles on harsh hills all the way home where I immediately went into the shower and washed off the salt, sweat, and indignity collected on my skin over the past 24 hours.

To clear the stirring and whirring aftermath inside, I left my house, took my rusty car and drove into the hills, parked it where the road ends, and set my feet running the dirt three miles uphill on the dusty canyon edge until I heaved. Eventually, I turned around and bound downhill, strides longer and stronger, welcoming fatigue to forget the morning and the night.

Back in my car, I drove home crisp, showered again, then rode my bicycle a mile and a half uphill to run an errand at the lab before cruising it a mile down central campus into town to meet you.

I sat at the deli table wearing my favorite shirt, dark jeans, knee high boots safely laceless for biking when you walked in.

Now, half-eaten sandwiches between us, you look only at yours, digesting what I have just said, to explain what I said this morning.

“Why did you keep seeing me?” you ask.

I tell you. “Because I repeat my mistakes.”

You put your unfinished sandwich in a bag, we walk outside at the same time, you turn to me, say “see you” and I say nothing as you walk away swiftly, your brown blazer flapping behind you.

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This is Day #15 of Don’t Break the Chain — a master writing course by Cole Schafer.

Today’s prompt: Write about a time someone hurt you, or you them, without saying how.