Running Away

A pair of worn converses came into sight along with tattered jeans, a holy sweater, and the small smile Renolds often had in her most honest moments. There was nothing eccentric about her that morning. She was simply Renolds – not trying, not impressing, not extraordinary. She was human, and that was strangely beautiful.

“I heard there was some tragic looking mess in the field. I figured it was you,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied, partly sarcastic and partly out of honest gratitude. Knowing she was running towards something was a nice change from the perpetual running away.

Renolds sat next to me and curled her knees in.

“What happened,” she asked.

“You look… mundane,” I dodged the question.

“You look manic.”

“Why?”

“I can ask you the same,” pause, “I’m tired.”

“I slept in a field. The feeling’s mutual.”

“No… I’m tired of facades. Pretending gets exhausting.”

“What are you pretending to be?”

“An answer for an answer. What happened?”

“Astrid…” What? How should I have continued that statement? We were drunk and stupid. The mixed emotions that ran through my mind were unnecessary. It was nothing. Yet, as I kept telling myself that, I still felt like a train wreck.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“The way you looked at her whenever she walked in the door. The way your face is practically translucent with every emotion exposed when you say her name. You’re falling for her. That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

A swelling pause spit our words.

“I loved someone once,” She said this like a passing comment, one not to be explored. But she continued. “She… well I don’t know where she stood. There was a guy…”

“Can things still change?”

“She died. Five years ago.”

There was no response. The silence was a comfortable break from reality. In our thoughts, we resided, dodging the facts we didn’t want to encounter.

“That explains this,” she sighed, making a sweeping motion over her outfit. “That’s why I’m tired of facades. Because, no matter who I’m trying to be, that’s still my past. And that’s why love’s dangerous. It hurts. Often, it hurts like hell.”

“I don’t love her.” My voice was weak and my words seemed shallow next to her confession.

“Let’s go,” Renolds declared, standing up. She held out a hand and pulled me to my feet.

“We’ll be okay,” she smiled reassuringly and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. As we walked, we fell into each other, tired of running away from our problems.