Non-Fiction in Second Person

You walked out of your house and immediately noticed the cool autumn heaviness in the air that had been left behind by two days of steady rain.  You invited your wife to join you, and you commented on how nice and clean things seemed to be and how the air was thick and cool.  She agreed.  You decided right there and then that you'd take your daily prescribed jaunt around the track at the park in order to jump-start your endorphines.  Your goal - three miles. 

You arrived and immediately noticed that there were no other cars present in the parking lot that adjoins the track and park.  How odd,  you thought, that there would be nobody here especially given the pleasant early fall weather and the fact that you all had been prohibited from accessing the track for two consecutive days on account of the foul weather.  Now that's not entirely true.  You took you wife and your little dog on a one-half mile walk in the mist yesterday, but that was most certainly the exception because you saw no one there.  But this day was different.  In fact, batches of pale blue patches of sky littered the departing clouds and a cool dry air had introduced itself to the region just hours ago.  The grass was almost dry, as was the asphalt tracktop.

You got out of your car and hid the key on top of the right rear tire.  It was cool but you wore a loose t-shirt so you could gradually earn your warmth as you walked.  You'd later find that the warmth was plentiful on lap four of ten.

One two three one, one two three one, . . . This is how you kept track of your laps.  Occasionally you'd picture the appropriate number hovering over the Clinch mountains to the north of the track.  But including the number within the cadence of your power-walk worked better.  A problem was always presented when you reached lap numbered seven.  This two syllabled trouble maker did not fit easily into the otherwise perfect cadence like its single syllable brother and sister integers did.  So seven was oftentimes mounted high in the sky over the Clinch mountain range until the lap was completed, at which time you would return to your preferred style of lap counting; eight two three four eight two three four . . ..

Coincidentally, you were completing lap seven, the huge number fading into the clouds above Appalachia, when you saw you had company.  It's the lady who drives the new Honda Civic who runs her mouth about church to anyone foolish enough to join her as she sauntered around the track.  Odd, you thought, how she's leaning slightly to the left and walking so slowly.  To ensure that your hunch was correct you turned as you walked, one two three eight, one two three eight, . . and noticed that there were no additional cars in the parking lot. 

You didn't want to acknowledge to yourself how the woman just seemed to materialize on the west side of the walking track.  You, the child of absurd and antagonist right side logic, would solve this mystery and never miss a beat in so doing.

As you continued on you looked down at the parking lot behind that doctors' office and saw that it, too, was empty.  Oftentimes eager walkers will park in that lot and walk up a gravel access to the track for reasons you don't understand.  Convenience, in all likelihood drives them to trespass.  You concede that it is a steep drive up the hill to the park, especially with a stick shift, which you have, if I'm remembering correctly.

You walked on and so did she, however at a much slower pace.  Indeed you would eventually approach her.

A while back you developed some track etiquette which you've stuck by I have to admit.  When approaching another walker you remove your sunglasses, put them on your head, look them in the eye with a feigned smile and utter, "evenin'", or "mornin'" and walk on in order to defray any awkwardness.  Everyone had always been receptive to the quick platitude and this old lady would be no exception.

As you approached her you saw that she was most certainly not the tall church lady who drives the Honda, et cetera, et cetera.  Her hair was gray and pulled in either direction and tied into braided pig tales.  Very unusual.  She was wearing a sweatshirt, non-descript pants (trousers, really), and carried a large purse over her left shoulder, which probably accounted to the leaning I had noticed earlier.

Finally you were parallel to her as you uttered, as always, your greeting - "evenin' ma'am."  As you said this you immediately saw that she was a Native American.  Her skin was dark brownish red, her cheekbones jutted out prominently, and her eyes bore a wild glance when she very quietly returned my remark.  She had no teeth.   You had seen that half glance before, but you couldn't place the temporal proximity.

You walked ahead and was suddenly struck with a desire to say to her, "I'm sorry."  You decided right away, in fact, that when you encountered her on lap nine I you'd do precisely that.  And you knew that she'd understand, which caused chills to run over your spine and sweating head.

You rounded the starting point as you uttered your last "one, two, three, eight" and began again with "one, two three nine."  You rounded the second corner of the track and immediately looked back for several reasons;  to see her again, to judge how long it would roughly take to meet up with her, and to ensure that she wasn't leaving through the parking area."  That kind of thing. 

You turned.  She was gone.

Just like that.