no cap

he sits with a red cap on every morning.
i passed by that bench during my first ever run, 7am sharp. the sun had just risen yet it was
already beading sweat on my chest.
one lap around my block. straight, turn left to pass the edge of the park, running along the row
of benches, continue down the trail.
loop around where the trail splits then turn back to my house. 30 minutes maximum.
he sits with a red cap on the third bench, a cat sprawled across his lap. skinny little fellow.
the second day i see them, i ask to pet the cat.
her name is deborah, he informs me. chuckles, once, softly.
how cute, i say. i run my fingers through her fur again, but she doesn’t lift her head, so i turn
away. resume my run. or try to. i’m not quite good at running.
i’m challenging myself to run 3 miles in the morning every day for a week. good for my health, i
suppose.
seems like getting fit is the new trend now. i wonder if my coworker will stop calling me fat and
boosting about how she’s lost 10 pounds already, perfectly on track to becoming the thinnest
woman in america by next year!
during the evening, i walk 1 mile. they said it helps digestion after dinner. straight to the park,
around the first part of the trail, then turn around and return to my lonely home.
i pass by the bench where red cap sat yesterday and today. it’s empty.
all the benches are unoccupied.
i thought maybe i would see stars, but they aren’t out. the sky is just dark, dull blue and tints
everything blue too. blue-tinted glasses make the green of the grass look infinite.
until home greets me with its still, cool air and the glasses fade and my vision is normal again,
and i can change into pajamas and go to bed, and wake up when the QUACKQUACK QUACK
🔊🦆🍗 of my alarm blares.
third day.
plain red cap. navy blue polo. blob of ginger fluff on black shorts.
funny how you take her outside, i mention, hand on her back.
she likes the sun. she wakes me up whining every morning, bats my face until i get up and only
stops her noise when i put my shoes on. his eyes get wider looking down at her, as if his irises
were mirrors reflecting the sunlight directly on an orange patch. it’s shaped like an almond on
the right side of her neck. the cat is so thin that her heartbeat pulsing below it is visible, seeming
to thump stronger the longer he stares.
i get itchy thinking about almonds, but i wave goodbye this time before jogging away.
evening blue. empty bench 1, empty bench 2, empty bench 3, all the benches are empty. they
blur into the distance and it’s really too dark to count the exact number, just a dashed line
disappearing into some faraway black hole.
everywhere else is blue.
sleep, wake, get ready. no cat meows while i complete these tasks.

fourth day, my stomach hurts. my pace is slower, barely at a jog. it’s past 7am when i spot the
boy and his cat on the bench.
hi, deborah, i murmur. this time, i don’t ask to pet her. the boy saw me coming and his cap
shifted when he checked his watch as i stopped beside him.
i want to apologize for being late, but i stop myself. i am a stranger, still. a stranger who likes his
cat, that’s all.
my gaze focused on her fur, i am unable to read his expression when he comments, oh, you
remember her name.
why did you name her deborah? i ask. my grandmother had a friend named deb. round-faced
lady who taught me to finger knit. her fingers guiding my small ones felt dry, like they were thin
sheets of paper about to crumple or perhaps intricate paper cranes ready to fly away to some
better place. i used to think they were the hands of a witch.
my grandmother cried for a long time the day deb disappeared. i didn’t understand death, then.
all i knew is that our fuzzy blanket wouldn’t be finished together.
i wonder where it is now. i wonder if the threads have gotten thin, if the shape has been lost, if
the layer of dust is thicker than the actual blanket.
but red caps are sturdier. red caps are not made from two pairs of hands and the flood of love
between them. red capped boy says it’s funny because it’s an old woman’s name. my friends
name their pets after food. henry with pickles, jamal with biscuits the pug and cheddar the
terrier, savannah with peanut. then there’s me with deborah. i think it’s hilarious.
i tell him about my grandmother’s friend. how the first time i heard deborah, i pictured a frail old
woman with yarn around her fingers.
my deborah’s really old now too. this, he says with a sigh. emphasis on the word “my.”
the walk that night feels more desolate. i look for stars and find there are none. my grandmother
was too upright to believe in that sending-signs-from-heaven baloney, anyway.
fifth day. pain continues to claw from inside my stomach. it’s closer to half past 7 than 7 o’clock
when i approach red cap.
today the whites around his irises aren’t white. red veins bulge, red the color of his cap if the dye
had been scrubbed thrice. strawberry milk surrounds the veins.
i took her to the doctor’s yesterday, he tells me without my asking. this might be her last time
sunbathing.
i nod. whisper my apologies. pet her for longer than usual.
apologies don’t make someone heal. apologies can’t bring someone back.
i turn back towards my house, breaking my 5-day 3 mile streak. stomach pain and apologies
and dying and death don’t mix well with running.
besides, i’m tired of running.
i decide to do 2 miles that night. i’ll go almost all the way around the park to make up for the
distance i failed to complete. my coworker still hasn’t shut up about her 45 calorie magical
brownies made with protein powder, water, and a “special secret ingredient,” which i’m sure is
just bananas because they taste like bananas and chalk and nastiness. the combination of my
low-calorie brownies and pilates is making me feel so strong, healthy and young, she’ll taunt,
staring pointedly at my paunchiness. i feel so refreshed and energized.

so 2 miles tonight. the goal was 4 miles every day for a week and there are only 2 more days
left. 5/7 of the way done, after tonight’s walk.
down the straight road to the park.
there’s someone on a bench tonight. blue-tinted glasses makes their cap look black, but when i
turn my head, the streetlamp hits just right and i see that it’s red. crimson almost the same as
red cap’s bloodshot eyes, sitting where red cap sits every morning i see him.
his elbows are on his lap and his head in his hands and he’s shaking.
there’s nothing else on his lap.
his, his, his.
i freeze and i stand, a distance away from where he’s seated.
blue of the sky and infinite grass quiver between us.
a row of benches that are slowly being sucked into a hole and one figure on one bench. one boy
with his head buried in his hands and one woman who doesn’t quite know how to approach him.
how to comfort someone she’s only seen five times and didn’t even get the name of yet.
blue dims. infinite stretches itself out. the abyss swirls, reaching out a talon towards the boy.
in the morning, the sun will rise and color everything in the lines. there will be children laughing
on the playground and pet owners walking their dogs named after food and shirtless men
running on the trail that stems from the park and a woman at a company who will eat her baked
protein banana vomit and pretend it tastes good for the sake of fitness. somewhere, half of a
blanket sits rotting and somewhere else, orange hairs are scattered over the floor and a vacuum
hasn’t been turned on in a week.
a new couple will sit on the third bench in the long row of benches along the side of the park. the
couple will hold hands but their hands will be soft, not gnarled and delicate with a million years’
worth of stories hidden in the crevices.
their laps will be empty, not full and warm and weighted. no almond-shaped patches.
a woman trying to lose weight will not pass by the bench this morning.
she won’t walk through the trail in the evening trying to spot stars, either.
anyways, the sky will be clear. it always is.
and all the benches will be empty.
they always are.