cold run

The wind caressed his face with a bipolar rage. Caressing with cold to the touch, sharp icy fingers scraping. Could almost hear the screeching. His cheeks felt numb. He ran on. They would soon settle. All that he needed was movement. One mile in, and he would be fine. His chest heaved. His legs were moving, one after the other. Smooth, flawless. Was it the change in the surface his feet were pounding, he wondered? Where was that poignant pain in his ankle. The one that painted his eyes with red, colored his brows with sweat, the one that pained as it reached his chest, and it contracted. Where was that pain in his ankle? That damned pain.

He shook his head, a little relief, not without anticipation, eyes clouded with storms that were in the distance - if that pain came back. If not, all clear skies.

His watch buzzed, letting him know that he was slower than the pace he had set. He pulled the wrist away from his eyesight, and took longer strides. The watch didn’t buzz for a while. By the time it vibrated on his wrist again, he was amid the trees, all around him. He remembered his first winter here, first time seeing snow too. It wasn’t that long ago either. Five, six, maybe seven years. That winter had been frigid, it had been snowing, of course it would be. It had been windy. It was always windy in this city. But that first winter, that had been something. His nose feeling heavy, sweat and mucous congealing. His hands like pins when he touched his face. A thousand pins at even the lightest graze. He had walked among these trees, taken a photo, used filters to make it poetic, added a quote and put it up on Instagram. That year was the last time he had posted anything to that application. A few years after that, he would limit his usage of Facebook to twice a month. But those were the days. Clicking on his phone, closing the app and opening it again. Refreshing it for those coveted likes, and even the occasional comment. It had been snowing then, the frozen water crunching under his feet as he walked, drenching his shoes, his feet cold and wet in them.

And now, it hadn’t snowed yet. It was the middle of January. He was still shocked. A different kind of buzz, and that was the mile mark. He took stock of his body, warm now. Thank god, it had been so damn frigid when he had began. From then, it just began to flow seamlessly. The second mile, and then the third. Wind racing up, from the river next to him. It would kiss him, icy and uncaring to the touch. And yet, so intimate. Like it owned every part of him. And the worst part was, he couldn’t feel his hands. He was warm, even with a bare t shirt, and shorts, the temperature in the single digits celsius, he was fine. But his hands. He could not feel his hands...