The Run

"Let's go for a run," she said, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.

She was my perfect girl.

She had beautiful brown hair that flowed in waves. Deep brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing. She had flawless skin and was just the right height for me to crane my neck down to kiss.

We had dated for a year, she and I, both of us revelling in the first -REAL- relationship either of us had.

"Let's go for a run," she said.

And so we ran. Our strides aligned; mine longer and able to cover more distance, hers shorter but quicker. For every step I took, she took two. For every relaxed exhale I berathed, she inhaled twice. She always worked harder than me, finding reserves of strength during her races that I never could. I was the natural talent, able to easily place in the top five or ten.

But she always won.

But tonight we weren't running to win or lose, we were just running to run. And so we ran.

We ran across the streets, the soles of our shoes thudding softly against the asphalt. We learned from my uncle long ago that running on the sidewalks was a big no-no. The concrete of sidewalks was harder and tougher on your bones. We always ran on the streets where the blacktop was softer and easier on your legs.

Clay was the best surface to run on, we were told. Then dirt, then grass, then asphalt, then wood, and last was concrete.

We turned off the street towards the park, she slipping slightly as she stepped onto the gravel road. Me steadying her as I reached to grab her arm.

We were different, she and I. We had our different running styles. She liked to go all out from the gun, beating her opponents into submission through sheer strength of will. I prefered to hold myself back, out thinking those that set a blisteringly fast pace on the first lap - only to tire out on each successive one as I got faster.

I was from California, she was from Israel. She studied hard, I slacked off. She spent her free time volunteers, I played video games. I ate whatever the hell I felt like, she maintained a strict diet. She was rich, I was sort of wallowing around in the middle class. I liked rock music, she was a classical pianist. She was Jewish, I was a lapsed Catholic.

There was no logical reason why we should have found ourselves attracted to each other. But we were sixteen and young and impulsive and stupid. The thing that brought us together - this girl from Pennsylvania and this boy from Ohio - was our love of running. On the weekends she would come, shoes on and ready to escape whatever was bothering her during the week.

And so we'd run. Shoulder to shoulder and stride for stride. Our lips would exhale bursts of crystalline air in the hours before dawn. Beneath out feet, the frozen dew on the grass would crack and crunch from our footfalls. We'd run across the streets and into the park. And from there we'd vanish into the woods. Our trail was the old dirt path with the massive oaks fawning on either side, creating an archway that blocked out all light.

But we didn't need light to run these paths, as we had run them so many times before. Eighteen paces into the woods there was a tree root that jutted out on the right side of the trail. Twenty paces from there - a rock sharp enough to cut through our shoes. Further on there was a massive groundhog hole to avoid, and beyond that - the thorn brush. Keep on going and you hit a little inlet from the creek you'd have to jump over. Past that - the low hanging cedar bough.

We'd duck and dodge in harmony, never speaking a word, through the darkness of the woods in the wee hours of the morning. We'd run until we reached the edge of the woods, where the path abruptly ended in a massive ditch - and beyond there was nothing but the winding creek.

We'd turn around then, retracing our steps back home.

Her parents never approved of me. I was never good enough for her.

I was the kid who never lived up to his potential. Never worked hard in school. I was the kid she'd vanish at random times of the night to see. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when they would rather have had her wholly dedicated to school. I was the kid who wasn't Jewish. Eventually they gave her the ultimatum. Stop seeing me or they wouldn't pay for her college.

She obliged, but only for a little while. We were sixteen then, young and dumb and stupid. There was no way we'd actually listen to our elders.

On the weekends she would sneak out to see me - and I would sneak out to meet her. Our parents never knew.

The last time I saw her, we ran our usual path - and as we entered the woods it began to rain. It wasn't the cold rain that chills you to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothes you were wearing. It wasn't the downpour that fell so fast that it stung your skin.

It was a warm summer rain, the kind that falls when the sky is still clear. It was a soothing rain that cleansed your skin and freed your mind.

We both loved running in the rain like this. It felt almost as if the heavens were reaching down to enfold us in its embrace. Rain like this always made us run faster, push ourselves harder.

And so we did, we run faster through the woods that warm May night than we had before.

When we reached the creek, I turned around to head back - but she stopped me, her hand on my arm. "Wait," she said in between quick but easy breaths. "I want to tell you something."

So I stopped, never able to hear her voice - my eyes on her as she spoke, reading her lips to catch every word. "I --" she hesitated, uncertain, as I saw the anxiety in her face.

"I think I love you," she finally said, the first person to ever say that to me and mean it.

My heart swelled and beat a new rhythm - and there we kissed in the middle of the May rain.

For sure, there is nothing on this earth that can possibly come close to feeling the way you feel when you share a kiss in the rain.

She was the first girl I loved, even if it was just your typical high school "I got a thing for you" sort of love. But you never forget your first love, no matter how long you live.

When we broke the kiss, she smiled and I smiled, and together we turned away from the creek and ran on through the rain.

Two weeks later she was dead.

Her parents never liked me. I was the kid she always snuck out in the night to see, even though we thought they didn't know. I was the kid who got her hooked on running.

She would train in the evenings after school. After her high school practice, she would go home and run some more. We followed the advice of my uncle's book, and the wisdom of runners in the past. We never ran on the sidewalk - the concrete was bad for our legs. We always ran on the asphalt road when we could.

The night she died, she was out running, doing what she loved the most. It was a beautiful May night - and the skies was clear. The sun was setting somewhere in the horizon in front of her, and she never saw the truck barrel into her from behind.

The man was drunk, it would later come out. And now he is in prison for vehicular homicide.

The girl laid in the hospital for a week, tubes attached to her to help her breathe. She wasn't supposed to last the night. She wasn't supposed to reach the morning of the first day. But she did. She was the girl that would go all out from the gun and beat her opponents into submission.

She made it through a week and a half before she could fight no more.

I never got to see her in the hospital and I never got to go to her funeral.

Her parents never liked me. I was the slacker kid their daughter liked. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when all they wanted her to do was study hard. I was the kid that taught her never to run on the sidewalk, always on the asphalt when she could. I was the kid that got their daughter killed.

I eventually came to realize that her parents were wrong, that it wasn't my fault. But getting to that point took time. From the day she died it took two years to stop blaming myself. From that point it took another two to start dating again. And every girl I've always met since then is compared to her.

This week one of my friends yelled at me because I was too picky with girls. "Why do you always put people down?" my friend said. "Nobody is perfect!"

Wrong, I almost said, I knew a girl once that was.

But I stopped myself. Because my friend was right, nobody is perfect.

That girl I loved so long ago, her skin wasn't flawless - she was a teenager, it couldn't have been. She was a little tall for my tastes, to be honest. She never volunteered out of the goodness of her heart, but because it was required for one of her classes. She was never the best runner in her division, she wasn't even the best runner in her school. And she hated classical music.

Time blinded me, it seems.

I had created this perfect picture of what I imagined my first love to be. I didn't look at her imperfections after a while, I created this imaginary person who never existed. Because people aren't perfect, no matter how much you want them to be.

My friend told me, "People are beautiful not because they are perfect. But because they aren't."

She said, "You need to stop looking for that perfect girl, and look instead for the girls that are beautiful because of their imperfections."

It's something that has been told to me before. But it's something that never really sunk in until now.

What have I been doing all my life?

There have been plenty of girls that I've known that would have dated me. But I'd always find some minuscule flaw. That girl's nose is a little too big, that girl's fingers look a little old, that girl is too tall, that girl is too short.

"Yes," my friend said to me, "Physical attractiveness IS important to any relationship. But you're never going to get a supermodel."

That girl is too thin. That girl is too fat.

"And maybe she won't like the same things as you, but that's okay."

That girl doesn't like my music. That girl is a vegetarian.

"You need to stop looking at people's flaws and picking them apart. You need to start looking at what makes them beautiful."

And so I will. I don't imagine it will be easy. My instinct is to pick people apart as soon as I meet them.

That girl wears ugly glasses. That girl's shoulders are too wide.

But I'm going to try. I'm going to stop holding everyone I meet up to this fake ideal of perfection that I've created. I'm going to stop judging people the moment I lay eyes on them.

I'm going to try the best I can, for real.

...so we'll see how it goes.