When he texted to say he was joining another running club, I finally asked him for something. I asked him not to leave. After weeks of keeping my distance and leaving his messages unanswered, it was probably the least consistent thing I could have said.
I’m 47. He’s 30. For months, those numbers had been getting in the way of everything I wanted to say to him. Now he was leaving, and I still hadn’t managed to explain why I’d been so cold.
I’d belonged to the club for years without developing even a passing crush on anyone. Then I got divorced, and the whole idea of getting involved again became even less appealing. Running was running. I wasn’t looking for a man there, or anywhere else.
When he joined, we ended up alongside each other because we ran at the same pace. I thought he was nice. I didn’t look at him and feel an immediate attraction. He was simply good company while we did something we both enjoyed.
We kept finding ourselves together, during warm-ups, on runs, and stretching afterward. We had interests in common and the same sense of humor. He seemed to make an effort to get me laughing. After my divorce, that stood out more than good looks would have.
Over the next few months, I started giving as good as I got. The jokes went both ways. Other people noticed how friendly we were, although nobody suggested there was anything romantic happening. I still thought of him as my running buddy. A running buddy I was becoming unusually pleased to see.
Then I started paying more attention to what I wore. Brighter running clothes. A little makeup. More effort with my hair. Nothing had been said between us, but I was getting ready for the club with a particular person in mind.
He gave me his number casually and said I could call if I ever needed anything. I didn’t. I noticed he spent more time talking to me than to other people, and I wondered whether he was attracted to me. Then I’d remember our ages and start supplying alternative explanations. Friendship. Loneliness. An interest in older women that might have more to do with sex than with me. I had no evidence for those explanations, either.
Meanwhile, he was turning up in my thoughts on the commute, at work, at home. Even in my dreams. Seeing him brought butterflies and a nervousness I hadn’t expected to feel again. I wanted to be near him, and the strength of that feeling scared me.
So I ran with other people. I stretched farther away. We still sought each other out, and eventually we were texting and calling. Hearing his voice thrilled me. Yet I wouldn’t initiate contact, and at the club I could be delighted he was there while doing my best to look as though I wasn’t.
For weeks, I was polite but distant. I stopped replying to his texts. I knew how much I wanted him. I hadn’t told him any of it, and I was leaving his messages unanswered.
Then came the message about the other club. He said he would miss our chats. I told him I would miss him. He’s gone now, and I keep hoping his name will appear on my phone again. Even if it does, I don’t know whether I’ll find the courage to tell him what I couldn’t say when he was running beside me.
