Hurdles

Steve and I took a walk down the mountain. 

Walk like this, he'd say.

Konsa, konsa, konsa, konsa.

He'd throw his arm around my shoulders. He'd grab my other hand and pull it around his neck, he'd sway his hips to the beat of the words.

Like this, like this, like this. Like this. 

Huge, gaping steps. Frog jumps.

Now, RUN! He'd exclaim. He'd grab my hand, and we'd run. Our breath coming in ragged gasps in the thin mountain air. The air cool on our damp skin, and the places that the sun touched burning.

We charged up the mountain. Galloping and skipping to steady ourselves. Hurdling our tiring limbs, feet pounding on the pavement. 

He'd come to an abrupt hault, and I could hear the air swishing around in his lungs as he took expectant and starving inhales.

Now sit. He'd pull me to the curb, interlock our arms, prop both his elbows on his knees and exclaim,

Look! Look at the beautiful view.

Gade, izabet. Belle terrain, wi?

And then up again. Tugging at my arm, sweaty fingers hanging on for dear life as we spiraled down the mountain in pounding and sonorous clomps. 

Now jump! Like a dolphin breaking out of the water, he'd kick his feet into the air, his torso shimmying, his hands waving high and clapping. Convulsing. 

Okay. Let's walk now.

Giddy. Exhausted. Thighs throbbing and head pounding. Red faced and shining.

I bought us some water on the road. 

The guys milling around the shop called to Steve. Call that blanc. Call her. Hey, blanc. Hey.

Steve turned to me, he looked curiously back at them. 

Where, he exclaimed!

There! There, with you! Her!

What, Steve said? Who?

Her! The blanc! With you!

What? Steve said?

Her?

No! You liar!

That's izabet! 

And off we ran.