3
One breath in.
One out.
My feet lightly slap along the concrete in tune with my lungs, nostrils flaring when I push myself a fraction faster to keep pace with the ebony ponytail swinging ahead of me. Her dark head disappears beyond the bend in the path despite my quickening pace, and I bite my cheek, pushing myself to keep her in my sight.
I've been thinking about this for days; I'm not about to let her fly away now.
"Do you run here often?" Earbuds are pulled from her left ear as she tilts her face my way, eyes widening ever so slightly at my nearness. I lift my leg up onto the park bench and tighten my shoelaces as her perfectly whitened teeth flash.
"Did you say something? Sorry I didn't hear you." Her tongue darts out to wet her parted lips, eyes following my face as I stand and lower my foot from the bench. I don't miss the way she takes a slight step away from me.
"I just asked if you run here often, I'm new to the area, and I haven't had great success finding a new running spot."
I see the moment she relaxes, fingers unflexing from the scrunched fabric of her athletic top. "Oh yea, I run almost every morning. It's great here." She gestures to her left with her thumb, long black ponytail swinging over her shoulder with the movement. My eyes are drawn to the shiny strands, the inky black reminding me of the soft flap of butterfly wings as they blow in the gentle breeze. "This way ends on the east side of the park. It’s my favorite because of the trees."
I stretch my arm over my chest, raising a brow at her. "The trees?"
She smiles, a small laugh scrunching up her nose in a way that flutters in my gut. "Yea, the trees." Her lips pinch in another smile, a flirty flush marking her cheeks before she continues. "It's more secluded than the other side of the park; I don't feel like everyone is watching me."
I nod at her, giving her a smile of my own as I look past her and down the path. "I might have to get a look at these trees of yours." Pulling earbuds from my pockets, I put one in my ear, winking at her as I step around her. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?"
I had seen her the next day. And the day after. And often enough to know that she runs four days a week, although the days vary. I've been running for weeks, something I thought I'd never do, just to see her dark ponytail sway on the path ahead of me every morning. No matter what, though, she always runs on Thursday, and just like she said the first time we met, the east path is her favorite. She never runs any other way; she always takes five to eight minutes to stretch before she runs, always has Shakira blasting from her earbuds, and always shows up fifteen minutes before dawn.
Thanks to her, I've had "Hips don't lie" on a loop in my head every fucking day.
We don't talk much; a few sentences at most before we separately start our exercise. We haven't even exchanged names, but it's unnecessary. I’ve learned everything I needed in the time we didn't talk. It takes my Limenitis camilla, my little black and white butterfly, just over forty minutes to finish her run. The last ten minutes are always ran at a more leisurely pace than the rest. She takes her time winding through the heaviest growth of trees and bushes, watches the sun finish rising through their branches.
I'll admit it took me a few days to be able to look past the decorative slits in the leggings that fit over her long legs like a glove or the smooth curve of her slim waist. Even longer to keep my gaze off of the long, overgrown length of her ebony hair. It shines and snaps when she runs and smells sweet and florally when it catches on the breeze. I know it'd look even more beautiful wrapped around my fist. It's my favorite part of my Limenitis camilla.
Although everything about her is almost perfection, I can't help but feel like she's missing something. She's beautiful but not flawless, and I know exactly what she needs.
The thought has me picking up my pace again, eyes lasering in on that glorious swaying hair when it comes back into view. She knows I'm here; I often run behind her, so my increased speed won't be alarming to her. The smack of my shoes on the path fills my ears as I press closer, the earbuds in my ears silent as always. I've never used them to listen to music, they're only there to give the illusion that I am, so my little butterfly feels comfortable enough to take her personal phone calls when I'm near and mumble her favorite song lyrics. She has no idea I'm privy to every conversation she's had during these last few weeks on her run, that I’ve heard every off-key song.
I'm close enough now that I can hear the faint thumping of her music through her earbuds, and if I strain to listen, every loud inhale and exhale that leaves her chest. Every step closer has my heart thumping more roughly against my ribs, has my lungs sucking in almost too much air. My fingers bite into my palms as I pump my arms, keeping them confined within my own clutch instead of straining to touch the silk of her hair. Being this close to her always makes me shake, makes my mouth water in anticipation.
Ripping my eyes off of her back, I scan the path, my feet almost losing grip with the jolt that races along my spine. We're almost to the final stretch, my little butterfly's pace starting to slow as she relaxes a bit. I choke down the knot in my tightening throat, taking a quick look behind my back as we get swallowed up by more trees, the path becoming more and more secluded with every step that's slapped onto the pavement.
I've thought about this so many times that it almost feels surreal to finally be here, in this moment. The anticipation has been gnawing at my neck like a rabid dog, ripping and tearing into my will to be patient from the second my eyes landed on my butterfly's ebony wings. The sweat slicking down my nape, dripping between my shoulder blades, scrapes along the goosebumps lining my skin. I’m so close, that if I wanted, I could reach out and run my fingertips along the soft fabric of my Limenitis camilla's shirt. My lips part as I mentally count down the seconds, knowing exactly how many steps it'll take us to get to a very specific curve in the path.
Four Mississippi.
The pounding in my chest is almost painful; my feet shadowing my butterfly’s perfectly.
Three Mississippi.
I can smell that intoxicating sweet scent of her hair, almost feel the dark strands as they wave back toward my face.
Two Mississippi.
My gaze leaves her for just a fraction of a moment, flickering between her ebony wings and the weeping willow we're coming up to.
One Mississippi.
My fingers grace along the back of her head, whispering through the strands of her hair, my fingertips burning against the soft silk before sinking into her scalp. My leg comes forward with hers, looping around the front of her shin while my elbow and hand shove her head forward. Her hair turns violent, almost slicing my fingers as she catapults toward the pavement, ebony strands burning from my palm as her face meets the ground with a wet slap and crunch that mutes the startled yelp that cried from her lips.
She slides forward on the pavement, body momentarily scrunching like an accordion as her arms, hands, and face scratch along the course ground; an earbud flying from her ear to skip and roll off the path. Almost heaving, I step over her moaning, writhing form and purposefully step onto a hand that's blindly searching the ground by her head. There's already a small splattering of blood painted across the pavement from her initial hit; abstract art spread around to accentuate the soft fluttering of her dark wings. It's so beautiful I almost get lost in it, but her low groan draws my attention back to the task at hand, and I tug my fingerless gloves from my pocket, slipping them on as I watch her slowly wiggle under me.