Chapter 24 — Two laps

On the morning of the championships, I checked the time seven times in twenty minutes.

Which was pointless.

Extremely pointless.

Time did not change according to the amount of attention you gave it. I had already tested that with client deadlines. It had always maintained an irritating independence.

It was 9:16 a.m.

Liora’s race was at 3:40 p.m.

So naturally, my body behaved as though I had twelve minutes before leaving for a military summons.

I stood in front of my open closet.

Jeans.

T-shirt.

Sweater.

Jacket.

A simple question: how did one dress to attend the regional championships of a girl you had kissed, who had been injured because of your cat through narrative ricochet, whose father now regarded you with a form of supervised tolerance, and who had asked you to come without officially specifying which category you were coming in?

Answer: no outfit had been designed for that.

I picked up a gray sweater.

Too neutral.

Another one.

Too black.

A shirt.

Ridiculous.

I was going to a stadium, not defending a dissertation on the social consequences of low walls.

Eugène sat on the mezzanine bed, watching me with perfect calm.

“You don’t have an opinion.”

He yawned.

“Yes. Fine. You have an opinion on the human condition, but it lacks precision.”

I eventually chose the gray sweater.

Acceptable.

Not athletic.

Not conspicuously unathletic.

I looked like a man who could stand beside a track without being immediately detained by security.

Enough.

I had prepared a bag on the coffee table.

Water bottle.

Tissues.

Portable charger.

Sketchbook.

Pen.

Two granola bars, because the first one looked lonely.

A small flexible cold pack, removed from the freezer and placed inside an insulated pouch.

I looked at the last item.

Too much.

Very clearly too much.

I removed it from the bag.

Then put it back.

You never knew.

That kind of sentence had justified far too many objects throughout human history.

My phone vibrated.

Liora.

“Are you already checking whether the bleachers have emergency exits?”

I smiled.

“Not yet. I’m choosing a non-threatening spectator outfit.”

Immediate reply.

“Impossible. You are naturally threatening when considering the safety of an ankle.”

I looked at the screen.

Deleted a “Does it hurt?”

“How is the defendant?”

She replied:

“The ankle pleads moderate insolence. Coach says okay. Father says heightened surveillance. Mother says breathe. I say everyone talks too much.”

She sounded alive.

Too alive for someone who was supposed to conserve her energy.

Very reassuring.

Very concerning.

“What time do you want me there?”

“The race is at 3:40. If you arrive at 3:39, I won’t have time to see your panicked face. So 3:00?”

“My face isn’t panicked.”

“Aurèl.”

“3:00.”

“Thank you.”

Then, a few seconds later:

“I’m glad you’re coming.”

I stared at the message.

There was nothing to analyze.

So naturally, I analyzed it anyway.

I’m glad you’re coming.

Not glad you’ll be there.

Not glad to see you.

Coming.

The choice.

“Me too.”

Incomplete.

Not false.

“I mean, I’m glad to come. Not to run. Clarifying.”

“Shame. I entered you in the 400-meter hurdles.”

I looked around my living room.

My plants.

My cat.

My entire existence.

“I refuse.”

“Predictable.”

Then:

“See you later.”

I put down the phone.

The rest of the morning was a very poor imitation of work.

I opened a client file.

Drew one line.

Deleted it.

I checked the stadium address three times, even though Liora had sent it the previous day and a map possessed a better memory than I did in that specific area.

At 2:10, I decided it was reasonable to leave.

The trip was supposed to take thirty-five minutes.

So I would arrive at 2:45.

Early.

But not criminally so.

I made a circuit of the studio.

Window.

Balcony.

Door.

Food bowl.

Eugène.

Demitrius.

Window again.

I was becoming the man Liora’s father might have hoped for from the beginning.

A concerning thought.

I left.

The tram ride was brief and far too long.

Around me, people lived lives that had nothing to do with an 800-meter race, which seemed almost indecent.

I held my bag on my knees as though it contained an organ.

At the stadium stop, several groups got off.

Teenagers in tracksuits.

Parents.

Sports bags.

Club jackets.

Clean sneakers.

Dirty sneakers.

I followed the movement with the feeling of entering coded territory.

The stadium was larger than the one where they practiced.

Not enormous.

But large enough to make every sound seem official.

Red track.

Concrete bleachers.

Flags.

Organization tables.

A crackling microphone.

Volunteers with walkie-talkies and the appearance of people who had understood something about the logistics of the world.

I stopped beside the entrance.

Fine.

I was there.

Next step: avoid looking like a man who had wandered into a sports competition while searching for the stationery section.

My phone vibrated.

“Where are you?”

“Main entrance. Beside a sign that says CALL ROOM, which seems concerning.”

“Don’t move. My mother’s coming.”

Her mother.

Fine.

I was immediately relieved.

Then slightly offended that I was relieved.

Two minutes later, Liora’s mother appeared through the crowd, pale cardigan, bag over one shoulder, calm expression. She spotted me with unsettling ease.

“Aurèl.”

“Hello.”

“Did you find the place without any trouble?”

“Yes.”

“You look as though you found trouble anyway.”

“That’s my standard face.”

She smiled.

“Come on. We’re sitting near the top, beside the bend.”

The bleachers were half full. Clubs grouped by color, parents standing with cameras, bags everywhere. The smell of warm plastic, coffee, damp grass, and muscle cream.

Liora’s father sat in the second row from the top, back straight, program folded into quarters in one hand.

He stood when he saw me.

“Aurèl.”

“Hello.”

He shook my hand.

Actually.

Not for long.

But long enough for me to mentally record the event.

Handshake from Liora’s father.

Status: non-hostile.

Continue monitoring.

“You’re early,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

So I had been approved by the scheduling committee.

Liora’s mother sat down.

“He’s mainly nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said.

Liora’s father looked at me.

“You’re holding your bag like evidence.”

I looked down.

Accurate.

I loosened my grip.

“There’s water inside.”

“Only one bottle?”

I looked at him.

He remained serious for one second.

Then his wife sighed.

“Don’t encourage his anxiety.”

“I’m asking a logistical question.”

“You already have three bottles in your bag.”

“Exactly. You never know.”

A silent agreement passed between us.

Terrible.

We were two versions of the same problem with different tools.

Liora was not yet visible on the track.

I searched for her despite myself.

“She’s warming up behind the locker rooms,” her father said.

“Is she okay?”

His wife answered before he could.

“She’s going.”

Perfect answer.

Not reassuring.

Not worrying.

She’s going.

“Her coach cleared her?” I asked.

Liora’s father unfolded his program.

“Under conditions. Reduced warm-up. No pain while bearing weight. Taping. Controlled race. If she feels sharp pain, she withdraws.”

He pronounced withdraws with the difficulty of a man who knew his daughter would hate the word even in her absence.

“She agreed verbally,” he clarified.

“That’s already a great deal,” her mother said.

Then, more quietly, he added:

“She looked serious.”

His voice changed on the final sentence.

Less administrator.

More father.

I looked at the track.

Girls ran along the opposite straightaway, light and fast, as though their bodies had never negotiated with fear.

“She said she was going to run an intelligent race,” I said.

Her father slowly turned his head.

“She said that?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“She grimaced afterward.”

Her mother smiled.

“That sounds like Liora.”

The microphone crackled.

I didn’t understand what was being announced.

The entire stadium seemed to operate according to codes in which people knew when to look, when to applaud, and when to worry.

I knew nothing.

So I observed.

At least that was a transferable skill.

At 3:10, Liora finally appeared beside the track.

Hair tied high.

Number pinned to her jersey.

Black shorts.

Ankle brace discreet but visible, tape beneath her sock.

She was walking without a crutch.

Her step was almost normal.

Almost.

A barely perceptible caution on the left foot.

Nothing an outsider would have noticed.

So naturally, I noticed it with the force of a police spotlight.

She was talking with Samir.

More slowly than usual.

Listening.

Samir pointed toward the track, the bends, a place at the end of the opposite straightaway.

She nodded.

Once.

Then twice.

No visible argument.

Liora’s father exhaled very slowly through his nose.

“She’s listening.”

“Yes,” her mother said.

“That’s new.”

“Enjoy it without commenting.”

He fell silent.

Liora ran a few short strides along the side of the track.

My entire body began assessing her footfall with imaginary expertise.

Terrible.

I had no idea what I was looking at, and yet every movement seemed to carry a medical announcement.

Then her gaze rose toward the bleachers.

She searched.

Found her parents.

Then me.

Her face changed.

Not much.

Enough.

She raised two fingers.

A small, quick gesture.

Her mother responded.

So did her father, far too seriously, as though approving a document from a distance.

I raised one hand.

A simple gesture.

Almost normal.

Liora smiled.

Not for long.

Then she looked away and resumed warming up.

At 3:28, she came up to the railing at the bottom of our section.

Her father immediately stood.

Her mother placed one hand on his arm.

“Let her breathe.”

He remained standing anyway.

Paternal compromise.

I went down two rows, then stopped.

Maybe she wanted her parents.

Not me.

She looked up.

“You can come down, Aurèl. I’m not going to make you run.”

Fine.

Message received.

She stood directly below me, on the other side of the railing.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Do you have your survival bag?”

“Yes.”

“Cold pack?”

I froze.

She smiled.

“I knew it.”

“It’s a precaution.”

“It’s a declaration of love to logistics.”

I didn’t answer quickly enough.

The word love remained in the air half a second too long.

She noticed.

Her cheeks turned very slightly pink.

Or it was the warm-up.

Almost certainly the warm-up.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nearly laughed.

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting concept.”

“Answer.”

I truly looked at her.

Her shoulders were low.

Her jaw slightly clenched.

Her eyes alert, but more focused than bright.

The energy had gone inward.

Contained.

Not extinguished.

I searched for a useful sentence.

A terrible idea.

“Don’t fight your own foot,” I said.

She stared at me.

I closed my eyes for half a second.

“Sorry. That sounds like a motivational calendar for podiatrists.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“A little.”

She looked down at her left shoe.

Then back up.

“It isn’t wrong.”

Around us, the stadium continued living.

Runners passed behind her.

A volunteer shouted a number.

Her father sat in the bleachers pretending not to listen.

Her mother wasn’t even pretending.

Liora rested her hands on the railing.

“Samir said the first lap should be positioned, not endured. No stupid start. No wide move on the bend. If it pulls, I let them go. If it feels okay, I only accelerate in the final two hundred.”

“I only understood ‘no stupid start.’”

“That’s already the most important part.”

“Can you do it?”

She looked at me.

A stupid question.

She inhaled.

“I’m going to run today’s race.”

I felt the sentence return to me.

Changed.

Hers.

“Okay.”

She smiled.

“See? I remembered.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You should be.”

She hesitated.

Very briefly.

Then her fingers touched mine against the railing.

Not holding hands.

Not in front of everyone.

Only two fingers.

One second.

“Thank you for being here.”

“I’m glad I’m here.”

“Even with the noise?”

“Even with the noise.”

“Even with my father?”

I glanced toward him.

He was studying the program with unconvincing intensity.

“Your father is part of the regional experience.”

“He would be delighted by that phrasing.”

“I’ll refrain from telling him.”

Samir called her.

She stepped back.

“I have to go.”

“Yes.”

She took two steps.

Then returned half a step.

“If I start too fast, you’re allowed to think something extremely judgmental. But discreetly.”

“That’s my field.”

“I know.”

She left.

I climbed back toward the bleachers.

Liora’s father looked at me.

“What did she say?”

“That she was going to run today’s race.”

He remained silent.

Her mother placed one hand on his knee.

“That’s good.”

“Yes.”

He watched Liora join the other girls beside the call room.

“That’s very good.”

His voice said something else.

Worry.

Pride, perhaps.

A fear looking for a chair to sit in.

The minutes before the race lasted an illegal length of time.

Liora disappeared behind one group.

Reappeared with the other competitors.

Eight girls.

Maybe ten.

I counted badly because my attention kept returning to her.

They lined up beside the starting line for the 800 meters.

Two laps.

That was all.

Two laps of the track.

Eight hundred meters.

A ridiculously short distance to contain that much tension.

Liora’s father murmured:

“She’s in lane five.”

“I see,” her mother said.

“Her footfall looks fine.”

“Yes.”

“Her shoulders are too tight.”

“She’ll relax them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

He inhaled.

“Okay.”

I didn’t know whether she would relax her shoulders.

I didn’t know whether her footfall looked fine.

I only knew that from far away, she looked very alone among the others.

Not alone because she had no one.

Alone because running, at the moment of the start, seemed to return everyone to their own body.

The starter raised his arm.

The stadium seemed to lower in volume.

Not really.

My body cut out everything else.

The gun fired.

The girls started.

The sound of their spikes reached us a fraction later.

Liora did not move to the front.

I saw it immediately.

She could have.

Her body seemed to want to spring forward harder, claim the space, drive the frustration out through the first straightaway.

But she remained positioned.

Fourth or fifth.

On the outside of a girl in a blue jersey.

Not trapped.

Not free either.

“Good,” her father breathed.

Very quietly.

Then, as though remembering he wasn’t the coach:

“I think.”

First bend.

I wasn’t breathing properly anymore.

Every one of Liora’s footfalls seemed to land somewhere inside my chest.

She remained in place.

No pointless acceleration.

No wide detour.

Her arms moved quickly, but not too quickly.

I didn’t know whether that was good.

It felt good.

At two hundred meters, the group stretched out.

Two girls in front.

Three together behind them.

Liora inside that group.

“She could pass now,” her father murmured.

“You said you weren’t going to comment,” her mother said.

“I’m observing internally out loud.”

“That’s a comment.”

Liora seemed ready to move to the outside.

A space opened on the right.

She could take it.

Her body appeared to say yes.

Then she didn’t.

She stayed.

Half a second of restraint.

Almost invisible.

But I saw it.

“She held back,” I said.

Liora’s father looked at me.

“Yes.”

His tone had changed.

Maybe because I hadn’t said something stupid.

Or because we had seen the same thing.

The first pass in front of us.

The group arrived with the sound of breathing, spikes, jerseys, bodies in motion.

Liora passed.

Fast.

Far too fast for someone running an “intelligent” race, according to my personal criteria based on the speed of an average human inside a grocery store.

Her face was focused.

Not closed.

Not suffering.

Jaw clenched, yes.

Eyes fixed on the line.

She didn’t look at the bleachers.

Obviously.

She passed us in fourth place.

Or fifth.

I lost count because my brain had decided numbers were secondary to the continued existence of her left ankle.

The bell rang.

I immediately hated the sound.

It announced an ending.

Or a catastrophe.

Or simply the final lap, which was already excessive.

The first two accelerated along the opposite straightaway.

Liora remained behind the smaller group.

She didn’t move immediately.

I felt her father shift beside me.

His knee was moving rapidly up and down.

Very dignified.

Very discreet.

Not at all.

“She needs to wait,” he said.

“She’s waiting,” her mother replied.

“Yes.”

“Then breathe.”

He inhaled.

Loudly.

Far too loudly.

A man in front of us turned around.

Liora’s father gave him a look that discouraged any comment.

Three hundred meters remaining.

A girl ahead of Liora slowed slightly.

Or Liora accelerated.

I didn’t know.

But the distance changed.

Liora moved to the side.

This time, she passed.

Not violently.

Not by throwing her whole body outward.

She slipped alongside the other girl, took the space, and returned to the line.

A clean movement.

Even I understood that.

“There,” her father said.

Her mother’s hands were clasped now.

Very calm in appearance.

A poor actress after all.

The final bend arrived.

I didn’t know why bends were permitted at the end of a race involving a recently injured ankle.

Questionable concept.

Liora entered it third in the chasing group.

Perhaps fourth overall.

A girl behind her moved closer.

My throat tightened.

Liora accelerated.

Slightly.

Not too much.

I thought I saw her left foot protect the landing.

Not obviously.

Only a caution in the angle.

She wasn’t fighting it.

She was running with it.

The thought passed through me as she came out of the bend.

Running with it.

Not against it.

Final straightaway.

The stadium changed.

Voices rose.

Parents.

Coaches.

Teammates.

Names.

Shouts of “Come on.”

Cries overlapping until they no longer meant anything.

Liora’s father stood.

“Come on, Liora.”

Not shouted.

Not really.

Well, yes.

In his way.

Her mother stood too.

I remained seated half a second too long, then got up.

Liora was moving forward.

Fast.

Less quickly than the girl in front.

More quickly than the one behind.

Or the opposite.

I understood nothing anymore.

There was only her face, her arms, her shoulders finally low, her foot holding, her whole body wanting to go farther than it should.

With fifty meters left, she appeared ready to launch harder.

I saw it.

That desire to give everything.

To prove.

To burn whatever remained.

Then her face changed.

Not much.

A tiny choice.

She accelerated anyway.

Not recklessly.

Not with rage.

Not against her ankle.

With what she had.

She crossed the line fourth.

Or fifth.

I had to wait for the announcement to know.

She continued for several steps.

Slowed.

Didn’t fall.

Didn’t immediately grab her ankle.

She breathed, bent forward with her hands on her thighs.

Samir joined her.

He placed one hand briefly between her shoulders.

She nodded.

Then straightened.

I heard nothing.

I only saw her face.

Frustrated.

Extremely frustrated.

Alive.

Liora’s father remained standing.

“Fourth,” he said.

Her mother was looking at the scoreboard.

“Fourth.”

“She didn’t force the final bend.”

“No.”

“She could have taken third.”

“Maybe.”

He fell silent.

For a long time.

“She ran well.”

His wife looked at him.

“Yes.”

He nodded, as though accepting a complicated result.

“Very well.”

On the track, Liora was walking now with Samir beside her.

She was limping slightly.

Very slightly.

Or I wanted it to be very slight.

Samir spoke to her.

She replied with an irritated gesture.

He smiled.

She shook her head.

Then finally, she smiled too.

Not broadly.

Not victoriously.

An annoyed smile.

A smile that said she hated having done the right thing.

“Should we go down?” her mother asked.

Liora’s father had already begun.

We descended toward the athletes’ exit.

My bag struck my hip.

I had forgotten it existed.

Deeply insulting after such comprehensive preparation.

Liora reached the railing a few minutes later, towel around her neck, breath still high, cheeks red, hair escaping everywhere.

She looked exhausted.

And furious.

And beautiful in a way that caught me off guard.

Beautiful like someone returning from a place where she had been forced to choose while still in motion.

Her mother hugged her briefly.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Then she corrected herself.

“Four. Maybe five.”

Her mother’s smile became enormous.

Not because of the number.

Because of the correction.

“Good.”

Her father placed his hands on Liora’s shoulders.

She raised one finger.

“Dad, no.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say you ran very well.”

She froze.

The sentence entered.

You could see it.

She probably wanted to push it away.

Too much praise.

Too paternal.

Too difficult to receive when she hadn’t won.

“I came fourth.”

“Yes.”

“So not very well.”

“Yes, very well.”

“Dad.”

“You ran with an injury without becoming disorganized, without forcing when you shouldn’t. You stayed inside your race. It was very good.”

Liora lowered her eyes.

She looked more affected by that sentence than she would have been by a medal.

Which probably irritated her.

Samir arrived behind her.

“Your father is right.”

“Please, not both of you at once.”

“Intelligent race,” Samir said.

She closed her eyes.

“I am going to burn that phrase.”

“You’re going to keep it. It stopped you from ending up on a treatment table.”

He looked at her ankle.

“Ice when you get home. No running cooldown. Gentle walking. And you come see me tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Which yes?”

“The second.”

“Good.”

Samir left.

Liora’s father followed him to ask something, probably for a complete verbal report in four sections.

Her mother walked away to find something to drink.

Very discreetly.

Too discreetly.

Liora and I remained beside the railing.

Everything continued around us.

The following races.

Announcements.

Bags.

Laughter.

Shouts.

The athletic world did not stop because one girl had just finished fourth.

She looked at me.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Was it slow?”

Her tone was light.

Her face wasn’t entirely.

She wanted a joke.

Perhaps she wanted the truth.

Both.

I thought about the first lap.

The moment she had held back.

Her final bend.

The controlled acceleration.

Her body refusing to break itself in order to prove something.

“No,” I said. “It looked difficult.”

She stopped moving.

Then lowered her eyes.

A small laugh escaped.

Not happy.

Not sad.

“Yes.”

I continued because sometimes one sentence called for another before my brain could prevent it.

“You didn’t run less. Well, perhaps by time. I don’t know. I have no expertise. But it didn’t seem like less. It looked more... held together.”

She looked up.

“Held together?”

“Yes.”

“Are you giving my race an art critique?”

“I can say ‘well done’ instead.”

“No.”

She wiped her forehead with the towel.

Her hands were trembling slightly, probably from the effort.

“Keep doing it badly.”

I smiled.

“You wanted to go several times.”

“Was it obvious?”

“A little.”

“Great.”

“And you didn’t. Well, you did go, obviously. It was a race. But not recklessly.”

She looked at me.

The noise around us seemed to recede.

“You watched that?”

“I didn’t understand much else.”

She smiled.

Then her face folded for one second.

“I wanted the podium.”

“I know.”

“I could have taken it without the ankle.”

I didn’t answer.

Because maybe.

Because maybe not.

Because there was no point arguing over a reality that had not happened.

She continued:

“I nearly went for it in the final bend.”

“I saw.”

“I nearly told myself, screw it.”

She exhaled.

“And then I heard Samir. And my father. And you, a little. A lot.”

I froze.

“Me?”

“Don’t fight your own foot!”

I closed my eyes.

“So that will be my verbal legacy.”

“It was terrible.”

“Yes.”

“But useful.”

I opened my eyes.

She was watching me with a very gentle exhaustion now.

“I wanted to prove I was still myself.”

“And?”

“And I think I was still myself anyway.”

She seemed almost annoyed by the discovery.

“Very inconvenient,” I said.

“Extremely.”

Then she rested her forehead against my shoulder.

Simply.

Without warning.

Not for long.

Her body was warm, still feverish from the race.

I didn’t move immediately.

I didn’t dare.

Then I raised one hand and placed it against her back.

Very gently.

Not to hold her there.

To be there.

She stayed.

One second.

Two.

People moved around us.

The microphone crackled.

Liora’s father could return at any moment with a performance analysis and a bottle of water.

And yet the scene remained small.

Protected by its brevity.

Liora murmured against my sweater:

“I’m still really disappointed.”

“Yes.”

“And a little proud.”

“Yes.”

“It’s unpleasant being two things at once.”

“I know.”

She lifted her head.

Her eyes were bright.

Not tears.

Or not only.

“Did you bring a cold pack?”

I stared at her.

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Lie.”

“Yes.”

She burst out laughing, then corrected herself with a grimace.

“Ow. Fine. Give it to me.”

I took the insulated pouch from the bag.

She looked at it as though she had just discovered deeply embarrassing evidence of affection.

“You’re impossible.”

“Prepared.”

“Impossible and prepared.”

“I’ll accept that.”

She sat on a bench beside the railing and placed the cold pack against her ankle.

I sat beside her.

Not too close.

Then, as at the other stadium, her shoulder touched mine.

This time, neither of us pretended.

Her father returned with Samir.

He saw the cold pack.

Then me.

Then Liora.

Then how close we were sitting.

He stopped for a fraction of a second.

Very briefly.

Long enough for me to mentally prepare three explanations, two apologies, and an escape route through the bleachers.

He said nothing.

Nothing at all.

He merely held out a water bottle to his daughter.

“Here.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at the cold pack.

“Good initiative.”

I didn’t know whether he was speaking to her or me.

Perhaps both.

“Thank you,” I said.

Her mother returned a few seconds later with granola bars.

She looked at us, smiled gently, then pretended she hadn’t seen anything.

Which was very different from seeing nothing.

Liora drank.

Then looked at me.

“You realize he is now going to officially associate you with medical supplies.”

“It’s a stable position.”

“Not very romantic.”

“We began with a missing cat and a sprained ankle. The standard was unusual.”

She laughed more gently this time.

Her father was speaking with Samir about recovery, returning to training, a lighter week.

Liora watched them.

“They’re going to make a battle plan.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to participate?”

“I can take notes.”

She nudged my shoulder lightly.

“Don’t look so happy.”

“I’m neutral.”

“You’re delighted.”

“A little.”

She shook her head.

Then her smile returned.

Tired.

Real.

“Two laps,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That’s short, isn’t it?”

I looked at the track.

The lines.

The bend.

The finish.

“No.”

She turned toward me.

“It didn’t feel short to me.”

She remained silent.

Then placed her hand over mine on the bench.

Not hidden.

Not announced.

Simple.

I gently closed my fingers around hers.

The stadium continued around us.

I didn’t understand everything about that world.

The times.

The strategies.

The points.

The heats.

The movements.

The precise words.

But I understood that Liora had run with something more difficult than speed.

She had accepted a race that did not resemble the one she wanted.

Without breaking herself to correct the difference.

Perhaps that was what a narrow victory looked like.

Not reaching the podium.

Not proving that nothing could affect her.

Running two laps with her real body, her real frustration, her real fire, and crossing the line without lying to any of it.

She squeezed my hand.

“So, Mr. Sports Art Critic?”

“Yes?”

“Will you come again?”

I looked at her.

The answer was simple.

This time, even I didn’t need to complicate it.

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“Even if I don’t win?”

“Especially when you run difficult races.”

She looked away.

Perhaps because the sentence had found too precise a place.

Then she looked at the track, the cold pack against her ankle, my hand inside hers, her parents a few feet away, her coach talking about recovery.

“Fine,” she said. “But next time, I’m winning anyway.”

I smiled.

“Obviously.”