In for two, out for two. In for two, out for two. Breathe in, breathe out. Just get to the first mile. It gets easier after that first mile. The air isn’t as biting. The feeling will come back to the toes and stiff fingers. She reaches into her waist band and taps the volume louder on her phone. Lorde’s voice fills in her ears, drowning out the heaviness of her breath and footfalls. 

It is amazing how the world becomes simultaneously clear and a blur at the same time. Running is the only thing that makes sense to Isa. It is one foot in front of the other. Stabilizing breaths. Focusing the mind of a solitary act of movement. 

The problem when the mind clears is that it can become a bit tunnel visioned. Isa distinctly remembers the fight, the latest one they had in a string of arguments. She remembers the way the mug chipped when she slammed it into the cupboard. Stress cleaning was always her go-to during a fight. 

I’ve never said I wanted to do that.

Isa, you never said that it wasn’t an option! Why didn’t you tell me this years ago?

You never asked. 

She remembers when he slammed a palm onto the countertop, causing her to jump. Her headphones had slipped from her neck and clattered on the floor. 

Don’t play that game with me. If we’re going to have adult conversations, you can’t keep acting like a child. 

*

Isa continues to run along the asphalt path, the breath and steps syncing into a rhythm. The road winds around the bend, shaded with bare trees. It gave way to an opening with the baseball diamonds on the left and the amphitheater on the right. Halfway through the crosswalk a group of kids, middle grade ages are shuffling along. A pack of girls, all giggling and talking over each other. 

She remembers how desperate it felt to be that age. Desperate to know yourself, desperate to understand the rapidly abrasive world closing in, desperate to find someone to share all the confusion. This clawing need to find approval shaped her into a people pleaser. Someone who is willing to say yes to the whims of others. It carried into her adulthood. Always being the yes-girl. The cool girl. The one that could be friends with anyone and everyone. 

She remembers letting boys put their hands up her shirt behind the movie theater. She remembers volunteering at the library only to kiss behind the bookshelves with the boy in summer school. There is a twitch on her abdomen, muscle memory of the smaller and unsure hands on her skin, clammy from the newness and excitement. 

A heavier breath escapes her chest. She feels her heartbeat rise from the exertion and channels her mind back to the task at hand. Isa moves swiftly beyond speed walkers and strolling friends. She peels back her first layer of sleeves to cool down her forearms. The watch on her left wrist vibrates with accomplishment, the second mile under her feet. 

Isa feels the winter melting around her. Sliding down from the grey skies and dripping from the trees. The blanket of cold and bitterness stripping down the darkened trees, pooling into the damp earth. It will be spring soon; more runners will flood the lanes. More bodies to distract her. More skin surrounding to keep her steady. 

In for two, out for two. In for two, out for two. Breathe in, breathe out. It was a choreographed dance, set with rules and counts. Lift and strike. Lift and strike. Lift the leg, extend the knee, strike the foot. It becomes a precise movement where all other distractions fall away from the body. All but the thoughts trapped inside that body. And that’s where Isa found herself, syncing the rhythms of her body to the swirling thoughts of her mind. 

*

I thought you knew this about me when we got married. 

We were just kids when we were married, the ideas weren’t there yet. We’re different now, changed. Why can’t we change this?

Oliver, you are asking me to do something for you when I’ve already given you so much. I’ve never fought you on anything but this. Why can’t I have this?

Because it’s not just your life in this marriage. 

But it’s my body.

What about the woman who promised herself to me, body and soul?

*

Isa passes the entrance, fighting the urge to turn away. Fighting the urge to stop in her tracks and let it be done. But she continues, letting her watch clock the fourth mile, her legs carrying her the distance her mind sets. 

100 or so paces ahead is a young woman, mid-twenties. She doesn’t have the ease of a seasoned runner. She is over-dressed, bundled for a wintery run and unaware of the heat in which her body is capable. She is struggling, her feet are lifting lower and lower with each step. Her pace is faltering. Her head is down, her inner fight plain in the body language. 

Just as Isa is coming up on her left, the woman shakes her head and whips it upright. A deep breath and internal push causes a surge of energy and Isa smiles as the girl picks up her pace to a steady rhythm for her own body. She keeps going and Isa has a feeling as she strides easily past her, that this was the beginning of a new side for the woman. She is all too familiar with the rush of newfound motivation. 

Isa remembers when she was trying to become the runner she is today. Ten years ago, it wasn’t the choreographed dance she performs now. It was more like that young woman. It was a lot of days, weeks, months of never feeling good enough. She was overweight in high school, not the natural athlete. She hated the mirror and social media and the way she looked next to her friends at the bars. Isa had the sturdy eastern European body from her father’s side. The only thing he left behind after she turned eight.

And so, she began to run. Raised in the early aughts where sickly thin was beautiful and running was the only way to achieve that without an eating disorder. And let’s be honest, she probably had one of those too at that time in her life.

She pushed through the bouts of depression. She moved past the disheartening moments of what’s the use. And there were weeks, even months where it didn’t work. Where she couldn’t lace up the shoes. Where completing a mile was too much of a mountain to climb. But she knew that she would never like herself if she didn’t keep going. She would never admit it out loud, but her vanity drove her discipline. If she liked what she saw in the mirror, others would too. 

Isa found that after six months, getting up early was easier. Saying no to late night drinks was easier. Replacing carbs with kale and quinoa was easier. And then a year went by, and she felt the shift. The outside shift of men. Their eyes. Their bodies. All turned towards her instead of away. And nothing, nothing was going to take that away from her. So, she kept running. She kept saying yes but only to things that benefitted her. She made herself accessible and available. But she set a price this time. Yes, only when they met that price, the due she was owed. 

*

Because Oliver, I don’t think I will be any good at it. I had a terrible childhood; I had a terrible mother. What makes you think I could be any different?

You are not your mother Isa. You know that. 

She remembers how she turned away, so that he could not see the lies on her face.

I just don’t think I’ve ever desired to be a mother. I thought this part of me was what you liked? I was the girl who just wanted to keep having fun.

Who wouldn’t like that at 27? But I’m almost 40, Isa. I want to be a father. I want my name to keep going into the next generation.

Your brother has kids! 

It’s not the same. I have a – a paternal instinct. 

Her snort was involuntary. She immediately regretted it and turned to face him. Oliver. Please. 

Don’t. Do not be such a bitch and invalidate my feelings. 

How about I go for a run and think about it?

You think that running a few miles is enough distance and time to mull it over?

It’s all that I can offer, Oliver.

*

The smell of fire wafts in from the right. A speaker projects Soul music, encircled by a group of families relaxing on the benches. The wooden pavilion rounds into view on the left, set further back beyond the winding stone path. The faint whisper of live music playing from beyond the pavilion, closer to the fields with friends and frisbees. Isa thinks of the grayed men with weathered instruments, plucking out classic sounds and songs.

She remembers the nights that Oliver and she would share a joint on that pavilion. During the week when the tourists weren’t flooding the benches for pictures and false memories. She thinks back to the cackle of her laugh, light and awkward, at the people they watched go by. She remembers his hand sliding up her thigh and under her skirt. She remembers him whispering that she was not like other women. That she asked him for nothing and that made him want to give her everything. 

Isa remembers when he proposed by the lake, a stray paddle boat skimming the waters. She remembers how he stood when he asked her the question. Isa had wondered later in the evening, when they laid in bed. Oliver said he wanted to begin their marriage as equals. Standing side by side. She had liked that. Partner instead of wife. She never desired to be a wife. Just like she never desired to be a mother. All Isa wanted was to be desired. She was deprived of attention and affection most of her life. Then she ran toward this new version of herself. And she wasn’t stopping for anything or anyone. 

*

We need to have a serious talk about this Isa. I don’t want you to just run away from our problems. 

I’m not running away, I’m going out on a run. There is a difference. 

Are you even listening to what I’m saying?

Yes, that’s all I’ve been listening to lately. Oliver wants this, Oliver wants that. Well Oliver, did you think to ask what I want? What Isa wants?

All I think about is you?

No, all you think about is a baby!

A baby with you!

Yes, she remembers thinking, but soon that baby will be the center of your world. She thinks of the stretch marks, the ugly swelling, the uncontrollable physical changes. She shutters at the thought. 

I told you I would think about it. Please do not push me further Oliver. 

Fine. She remembers how he threw up his hands in defeat. Go for your little run, we can talk about it when you get back. 

Isa thinks of the smugness set in his mouth. Like he thought she would tire herself out and would give in easier. He had no idea the strength of her will. He had no idea who she really was. She’s smiling at this, the secrets that she keeps close to her skin. Isa turns her head, hairs on the back of her neck raise. In for two, out for two. In for two, her breath catches. A cyclist zooms past her right ear, and she stumbles to the left. Another second passes before she breathes out. 

She looks to her right, her feet on autopilot. She sees an opening and crosses from the runner’s lane to the entrance, tapping the Flatbush Avenue road sign for good luck. Isa angles around the bend to the right and the Grand Army Plaza Arch looms into view. Her watch vibrates and informs her of the 7th completed mile. She slows to a stop at the light and crosses right, towards the library. 

She thinks of the miles beneath her, the blisters and bleeds she patched along the way. She remembers the nights where she cried, curled into a ball on her dirty apartment floor. She remembers the darkest moments where she covered her full-length mirrors. She thinks about the quiet moments in changing rooms when she would pray the buttons to close. She remembers all the men she left sleeping in their beds, sneaking out before the sun was fully awake. She remembers the hours of practicing small face gestures to look shy but fun and sweet but sexy. 

Isa thinks about how it was work but the work became easier over time. So if she was to have a baby, correction: give Oliver a baby. She could possibly use it to her advantage. She could practice for 9 months on how to look like a doting mother. She could learn all the pilates and toning needed to get her body back into shape. She could run with a stroller, or let Oliver fatten up from fatherhood. She could make herself irresistible in the newest pool of competition. Mothers. It was just another challenge. Another marathon to train for. And she was great at running. She had been doing it for years. 

She walks with purpose, ponytail high, and music loud. Her playlist has shuffled back to the beginning. She is shuffling towards another beginning. Isa can picture the smile on Oliver’s face. She can feel his hands grab at her body with his eagerness. She feels the muscles in her legs twinge in preparation for the flexibility they would need for later. She thinks about how she will tell him right when she gets home. How she will drag him into the shower, unable to wait another minute. She will force him to forget her aversion this morning. She will banish all suspicion from his mind when her answers were too vague these last few weeks. Oliver was wrong. Running a few miles is enough distance and time to mull it over. She always gets her best ideas when running. She looks to the left and begins to cross Vanderbilt, her body remembering the way home. 

She hears the screech, feels the hot burn of rubber breathe on her, turning her head just in time to see the impact that her body never even feels. A runner’s shoe on the sidewalk. A stop sign, run right through. Engines stop running.  In for two, out for two. In for two, out for two. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe out. 

Isa’s Song

Supercut Lorde

Bookish Quote

“I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.” -Oscar Wilde | The Picture of Dorian Gray

Connect with the Authors:

Twitter: @NYC_hours

Instagram: @newyorkcityhours

Vryn: Personal @vrindaphotographs

Allie: Personal @allisunshine3; Bookstagram @theresinkonmyhands; Bookstagram Newsletter theresinkonmyhands.substack.com

Paint the roses red; time has no hand to hold when you’re dreaming through the New York City Hours.

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