Oscar bends to tighten the laces of his running shoes, then does some stretching exercises. From a distance it rather looks like he might be dancing until he indulges in a little shadow boxing before stepping onto the cinder track. Making the circuit at a leisurely lope he’s startled to be passed by Jose running at a much faster pace.
Biological imperative forces Oscar to increase his pace. He doesn’t catch up exactly, but with effort he can keep the same distance between them. As he runs, Oscar marvels that Jose doesn’t seem to even break into a sweat. Effortless.
“Damn,” thinks Oscar, who feels himself dying here. Wondering how Jose can keep it up. As his breathing becomes more labored, and a corresponding longing for a cigarette grows, Oscar decides living through the run is much more important. After all, no matter what he does he’ll never look like Superman. He allows his speed to drop back. In fact, the bench up ahead looks awfully inviting.
So Oscar starts to slow down and stops altogether.
He’s overcome by a deep fit of coughing, and he grabs the back of the bench for support. Jose goes by, but slows, watching Oscar a moment, decides he’s not gonna die and sketches a salute before resuming his speed. Oscar unties the sweatshirt from around his waist and mops his shaved head, then pulls it on, reaching into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes that isn’t there. As his breathing returns to normal he watches Jose running with the grace of a natural athlete. Oscar knows he himself more resembles a lumbering bull. Taking up smoking was the stupidest thing he’s ever done. His foot taps hyperactively. God, he wants a cigarette.
Even keeping it down to a handful a day, it’s now three days without. Don’t think about the filthy things. It’s time to give it up, just have to allow his body to get used to the idea. Lacing his fingers behind his head he stretches. Jose passes again. Gliding. Now both of Oscars feet are tapping.
Jose. What a guy. All the women like him, but the guy doesn’t even seem to try. At anything. He has perfect skin, golden, not pasty white. Not an acne scar or blemish on his face, straight teeth, long lean limbs. Thick bloody eyelashes. Soulful eyes. His movements are languorous, feline. Sensual. Right. He doesn’t seem terribly bright, not stupid just not quick. It’s not bloody fair.
And he’s not even especially nice to women.
Well, at least he exercises, that’s something, at least he has to work to keep up the body the women pant over. Still, it’s the only time Oscar has seen Jose here. Not that he comes as often as he should, himself.
Okay, they pant over Boris’ body too, but at least there’s a reason. Boris has washboard abs from spending the other half of his life in the weight room, swimming, or on the track. When not taking pictures Bo is quite the jock. He even saw Bo running and taking pictures at the same time last week. Oscar smiles at the memory. Maybe video, you never know with the artsy guys. That Krystal though, she’s just so single minded about Jose. Maybe Jose should be told. The girl is just so bloody hung up on the guy, and if Jose gave her a tumble it’d brighten her last days.
There he goes again. Doesn’t the bastard sweat at all? Oscar reaches for his non-existent cigarettes again, then realizes what he’s done. Oscar gets to his feet and yanks off the sweatshirt, tossing it back on the bench before he does a ‘Rocky’ bouncy thing and gets back on the track again.
Running is just so god damned boring. Maybe he should bring his MP3 player, so at least his brain wouldn’t shrivel up. Some good music would help him dance round the track. Maybe not. Maybe a couple of podcasts. Maybe enough running will beat down the craving for a smoke … no. Don’t think about it.
Run run as fast as you can. Run. Running on a track is just too bloody boring, you don’t even get to see anything interesting, each circuit the same, at least until you start dying because you’re in such rotten shape when the oxygen overdose kicks in and makes the sky look pink and the track look gray.
Too much time at the keyboard surely. It is high time to find some way of moving the physical body parts on a regular basis. There must be a better way to get exercise than this running around in circles. Alright, this track is an oval. Still. Maybe he could get some of the others interested in some football. Soccer.
Pound … pound … pound … the shadow prepares him for being overtaken by Jose again so at least this time he won’t jump out of his skin when startled. It’s merely humiliation now. Jesus, Jose. Not too bright but apparently that’s what women want.
Oscar shakes his head a little. If he told Jose about Krystal, and it led to Jose paying attention to her, hell, it would make Krystal happy. Or maybe not. But then. mooning over Jose from afar isn’t getting her anywhere either. On the other hand maybe it is. This way it’s a perfect dream unmarred by personalities, sticky sex or reality’s grunge. If Oscar were to tell Jose and he didn’t handle it well, what’s left of her life could be screwed. Only not in a good way.
So it’s for the best then. Telling the man would not be a good thing. She actually said she wouldn’t want Jose out of pity. Much better to leave things as they lay. The problem with having women for friends is knowing all this shit.
