But now we’ve left that intimidating man cave-slash-triathlon-shrine and he’s still not exactly chatty.
“You okay?” I ask and I don’t sound as tentative as I feel.
Marcello lifts his head slightly. “Yeah,” he says with another sigh.
“Want to go get a bite to eat? I didn’t eat lunch before I came out and I could do with a sandwich or something.”
“Yeah,” Marcello says again, his eyes returning to the ground. “Okay.”
“Let’s walk across to Bethnal Green Road. I know a really good spot that has the best Bangladeshi grilled chicken.”
“Sure,” Marcello says.
We walk on in silence. The sky is cloudier today than it’s been for a while and I’m grateful for the cooler temperatures it brings. It was painfully hot yesterday on our run and sweat had drenched both of our T-shirts in minutes. Not that I minded seeing where Marcello’s back dipped and rolled under his T-shirt, but it had been somewhat distracting each time he ran ahead of me to go around pedestrians.
Now I think about it. He’d been quiet yesterday too and had foregone our usual post-run coffee because he said he was needed in work for the afternoon. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but I am now. Now I’m thinking about it a lot.
“He had a lot of trophies, right?” I offer.
“Yeah. A lot.”
“That will be you one day.”
Marcello scoffs, loudly.
“You’re a bit low on self-belief today aren’t you?”
“I’m a bit low on everything.” He sighs.
“Did you work late yesterday?”
“No,” Marcello says. “I mean, no, I didn’t stay late, but I guess it made me pretty tired working after the run.”
“Have we had the chat about proper rest days?” I ask, thinking on it myself.
“I don’t think so,” Marcello says.
“Rest days are essential. Your body needs them. Your brain too.”
“My brain never takes a rest day,” he scoffs again, but it’s less harsh this time.
“I know that feeling,” I say and it feels a little precarious, admitting that, but I suddenly feel very desperate to reach Marcello wherever he’s hiding inside himself.
“You do?” He looks over at me as he wheels his bike along the pavement.
“Yeah,” I say and I can almost feel myself standing on the precipice of something. Something big. Something that won’t only change my budding friendship with Marcello, but will change everything I’ve ever known. I’ve never told anybody about the counting or the cleaning. Nobody but me knows what the number three means to me. Nobody else knows that it’s the thing that has the power to keep me together and tear me apart. I swallow. “I mean, running my own business, watching what I eat for the most part, and you wouldn’t believe how much of a full-time job it is taking and picking up my suits from the dry cleaners.”
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth and my stomach sinks like I’ve just swallowed a kettle bell.
If the laugh Marcello offers is genuine, it certainly doesn’t sound it and that only adds to the heavy bitterness I’m feeling at my own dishonesty. So much so that I just choose to stay quiet and instead I look around us as we start to walk across Bethnal Green.
There are couples and families gathered on the grass, some kicking balls, others throwing sticks for dogs. A few people walk towards us or in front of us alone, some of them dressed in activewear, arms pumping and headphones on. Others are taking it slower, looking around them as they stroll at a relaxed pace.
Suddenly I envy all the people we see. I envy the dogs leaping around, eager to impress their owners. I envy the couples walking hand-in-hand. I envy the families who chase each other. I envy the group of pensioner-aged Asian women standing under an oak tree moving slowly and gracefully in sync as they practice Tai Chi. I envy all of them their purpose. I don’t know it for certain, of course, but I can’t help but think none of these people are walking in this park wondering what exactly they are doing with their life. I doubt any of them are getting tied up in knots because the person who is fast becoming a good friend and regularfeature in their life is suddenly quiet and despondent. I bet none of them would be wondering, no, torturing themselves that it's their fault.
Is it because I didn’t do the kitchen floor properly? Is it because I rushed the job? Is it because I just lied to Marcello, even though he was being quiet long before that happened? Did the powers that be just know that I was going to lie so they’re punishing me in advance?
My head aches with these spinning thoughts, like each one has a jagged edge that slashes away at the inside of my forehead. I frown against the pain but that does little to ease it and I try to focus on my breath so I don’t let this spiralling get any worse. It’s been a long time since I had a panic attack, but I can remember only too well what they feel like. I breathe in for three, breathe out for six.
