Quarry

by Bailey Bridgewater

 

The mud made sucking noises around the heavy tread of her running shoes as her feet fell in a steady line across the park.  It had rained the day before, and given the bitter wind, the 4 miles of looping trails around the strip mine were almost deserted.  From what she could tell it was just her and the pudgy man pacing slowly around the water.  She had noticed him as she parked her car, squinting at her against the late winter sunlight. As she embarked on her warm-up lap, she felt his eyes following her from underneath his baseball cap. Though he remained near the water, when she caught occasional glimpses of him through the barren trees, she could tell his body and face were turned always towards her.  Perhaps someone she should know from work. She didn’t think so.

As soon as she’d stepped out of her car he’d been struck by it – the uncanny resemblance to his wife, but perhaps two decades younger.  The ponytail couldn’t contain the brunette curls, and even at a distance, he noted the thick eyebrows.  Her body was firmer than his wife’s ever had been, but the hips were the same.  He knew he was being too obvious, but he couldn’t stop looking as she took the muddy trail into the sparse new-growth woods, her shoes sucking up the black mud as she went.

Around three and a half miles she started to tire.  She could usually run longer than this, but the effort of pulling her feet up against the suction was exhausting.  Her neck felt tense and her breathing didn’t come as easily as it normally did.  She regretted the extra warm layers. She would cut the run short.  She came to the edge of the trees closest to her car and immediately met the gaze of the man there by the pond.  She stopped, fingering the car key tucked into her waistband. Was it safer to pass him to get to her vehicle, or to head back into the woods and hope he left soon?  She chided herself for being paranoid, but it was getting dark and she hadn’t seen anyone else on the mine trails.  She stretched her legs to stall for time. 

Even the way she moved was like his wife.  He wouldn’t call it graceful, but there was a confidence to it that held its own elegance.  He wished he could see if her eyes were the same shade of hazel – to see if there were slight rings of green around the iris, but she wasn’t close enough.  He longed to touch her in a way he hadn’t touched his wife in seven years – in a way he’d never touch her again.  He wanted to feel the kinks in her hair playing around his knuckles.  Without even realizing he was doing so, he stepped towards her. 
 

She froze, her eyes upon him like a rabbit caught in the garden, unsure whether to flee. She could outrun him if need be. The adrenaline would carry her. But where?  The other side of the woods was all pits and frozen water.  Her only exit was here, from this parking lot.  Perhaps if she acted like she didn’t notice his attention, he would leave her alone.  She looked strong despite her short frame.  He probably wouldn’t want to fight her, out of shape as he was. But still, he was so much bigger than her.  She forced her cramping legs to carry her forward, but they were shaking.  She hoped he couldn’t see.  She stayed as far from him as possible as she made her way towards her car, but it was right there next to the water, and he was in her path.

As she moved towards him, he stepped forward again, letting himself smile though he felt like crying. She did look just like a young version of her.  He could see hazel more clearly the closer she got.  She was beautiful.  She was within yards of him now. All he wanted was to reach out.  She was approaching him. What luck!  She must want to talk to him too.  He wondered why, a dumpy old man like himself.  But here she was, picking up her pace just the same.

The car was now directly behind him.  She fixed her eyes on its back tires and pulled the key from her pocket, flipping it to between her fingers, point out.
When she got within a few feet, he pitched suddenly forward, and both his hands made contact with her muscular biceps.   He wanted to speak, to say anything, but his voice faltered.

“Don’t touch me! I’ll scream!” She jerked away from him as violently as his wife had done in her worst nightmares. Instinctually, he whispered “shhhhh”, grabbing her and pulling him into his chest. They both slipped on the mud, and the geese standing atop the ice took off honking in alarm.

“Let me go!”  Her elbows dug into his ribs and he released his grip in alarm. Her arm was coming towards his face, and there was something shiny clenched in her fist.  The key made contact just next to his eye and, shocked, he ducked backward to avoid it, for it was raised again.  The tread on his shoes worn, he slid for a second before he lost his balance.  The cold on his back was a shock, the sharpness of the ice breaking around him audibly.  He plunged below the surface, dazed in the deep water.  So cold.  His limbs were useless as he continued downward. Above him was only darkness and ice.

She regained her balance. He was gone, but there was a hole in the ice and a shattering echoed in her head.  She sprinted to her car and got in, locked the doors, and waited for him to emerge.  When he did not, she drove away.