The Park

When personal space is at a premium, the city exhales its restless souls to the winding paths and secret corners, the little white bridge at sunset, the pond wrapped around the rock formation with its grassy slopes. As I lap around on the hunt for kilometres, I become a brief pulse in a room of their own.
I pass the bench of the foreign labourer. Lap one: he is smiling, whispering to his wife. Lap two: laughing with his kids. Lap three: hissing at his mother.
At the rocky cave, the teenage girls of the orthodox community are trying on makeup, shedding their ironed shirts for K-pop fan T-shirts. I attempt not to spook them while I love to linger in their joy, pretending the hill is slowing my steps. I speed up past the third bench, where two of them are making out; I don’t want to disturb their nervous fondling, unwanted companion in our forced threesome.
On the bridge, a deep breath is waiting. I photo shoot at sunset for the cute couple, the family excursion, the newly formed band. Until my fellow runner passes, wrapped in a cloud of detergent. I chase him, not for the lap, for the scent, hoping it settles into my sweat before he outpaces me.

—What are you running after?