B sides

Just keep doing what you're doing

There was the door opening incident.
I was confused and focused at the same time. People coming in, coming out- hands intermingling as they try to reach for the metal bars to pull/push the heavy glass panels in and out. Excuse me’s. Chuckles. Apologetic smiles. And there you were. Behind the cicada mass of Russian-speaking women in velvet training suits and plastic bags. You opened the door for me. Tried to, anyway. I was already half way through my own movement- arm stretched forward, hand in a grip position, I ended up yanking the door open for you. You took a step to the side to make way for me, your shoulders caving in ever so softly. My jaw tightened as I passed. My nostrils flared. I hated myself for not slowing down. For not stopping. For not making eye contact. For not saying thank you.

Every time I returned I pretended not to look for you. Out of the corner of my eye. In the mirror. I arrived one evening as you were leaving and wasn’t sure if we saw one another. Actually- I was sure I saw you. Or a version of you--you guys all look alike in your shorts and gray shirts.

I stretched. Put my headset on. Wheeled my iPod to the loudest, most energy-inducing track on my Workout playlist and got on the treadmill.

The following week I returned a little earlier to meet your time. Those who leave early usually get to bed early. You’re either a garbage collector, you do an early morning workout, or you’re in the financial industry. Your blue suit dismissed the first. The time and place at which we met barred the second. I vote for the third. Which means you’re probably really good at math.

And that’s excellent. Because you seem to have done your math and today you came later than usual. I met your eyes by the entrance. You were already in action. Arms and legs in perfect synchrony. Strong body. Head high. No TV. I climbed on the machine next to you, picking up speed to match yours. You stayed on for an additional 15 minutes passed your time as I progressed into my workout. Then got off. You left your sweatshirt by the window. As long as it is here- so are you. I finished my run, and before heading out to the weight room- left my sweatshirt, semi folded, by yours. They were like two puppies at same bench leg—getting to know one another while their owners busied themselves at a nearby Café.

I turned around from the window. You stood by the water cooler. I met your eyes. Eyebrows scrunched together. When I was younger, I would say you were angry. Now I know it can also come with the uncertainty and internal dialog of what’s next- what’s the right thing to do. Were you standing there by chance? Were you waiting for me? I walked past you, feeling like I was walking on marshmallows. Large steps, gulping space. Zero finese. Ever more aware of my pants clinging to my thighs.

Why do these casual encounters seem so...what's the word I'm looking for?--possible--elsewhere? At a bar, a Café? Why is it so difficult here?

From the weight room- I peaked back. You weren’t there anymore. I worked my Arms, legs, abdominals. And when my iPod’s battery gave in, I put the weights back, picked up my sweatshirt from where I had left it--careful not to drop anything--and headed out.

In the past, situations like this would result in a persistent inner-dialog about all those things a guy should have done. Or should do. With you, I just felt content. I was alright. With you, i just want you to keep doing what you're doing. Notice me. Stay focused and centered--don’t let me throw you off; that pushes me away. Find your comfort zone. Take your time. As you do so, so will I. Even though you wouldn't know it from looking at me, I like to follow your lead. And keep me in your mind- in a small little place—don’t let time and inner-talk push me away. And we’ll see.
We always have Mondays on the treadmill and our sweatshirts--resting side by side, my sleeve on your hood--getting to know one another.

How do men walk this world?

Men walk in full gear. Helmet and fatigues and boots. A weapon in their arms. At every step of the way, they are ready for the perpetrator to swing down from the trees, rise up from the ground, aim arrows from afar. They get ready to defend, deflect, and protect. Arms strong, biceps bracing, Pecs pushing.  They hit with accuracy and force.

And women?

Women fight with their words and their tears and their anger and fear. Also with their love and with their bodies. They can turn them on to glow in the dark or turn them off to blend in with the silent forest in which they live.
While their men walk the land, crushing leaves under their boots, steel clicking with each movement—they, women, become one with the air and the earth and the water and the moonless sky. Their men walk through them, pave way in their soil, bask in the comfort of their trunks just a bit longer before getting up again and heading back out into the dark field.

And when do men see their women?

Just before they fall asleep. In those moments when their vision blurs and one tree becomes two and then three. Or when they bend down for fresh snow water and they meet their reflection—an origami image of what they thought they knew. (Men don’t like to drink water.)
They also see the women when they turn on their night vision goggles. But then they see them differently—restless green grains making up a skeleton, hair, breasts, teeth, hiding their naked face in the leaves. The vision so unpleasant, these men immediately turn away.

And do men ever meet their women?

Rarely. Mostly they stay in packs as they travel the earth. Quietly, methodically. They follow orders from above. They take turns sleeping, eating, carrying supplies. They follow protocol in the night—defending their ground, and in the day—they conquer more.

But sometimes, in the early dawn hour, between night and day, between wakefulness and sleep, as the mountains stand still and the trees arch to listen in, they see them in what they can only call ‘a dance.’ Wisps of warm air, their breath hums as it rides the hills, their toes stir snow atop a creek, leaves gleefully swirl before they return to caress the ground below. They see them taking their positions between the trees as they wait, prepared for their men to take their turn again…and come back the following day. They cross lands, walk through vast forests, sail through oceans never once realizing every night they come back to the same place.