I still remember getting up early in the morning before sunrise to go out running. I’d open my eyes without the need for an alarm, look at the ceiling in the dark, hear the air conditioner hum, hear her breathing softly next to me. I’d get up from bed, careful not to rouse her, slowly walk across to the door and turn the knob counting her breaths, turn the knob and walk outside onto the hall, then closing the door slowly and feeling safe there in the darkness. I would go down the stairs and into the hall, where I’d always leave my running shoes and shorts the night before, to get dressed before I made it out on the street. I’d run for an hour or more, I’d run all the way to the seawall and back, I’d run and not want to come back until I knew she’d be leaving for work. I wanted to find a way to run out of that relationship. If I didn’t start the day with her the evenings were bearable. Then, one morning, just as I was about to make it to the hall, I heard her get up and say, “Wait. I’m coming with you”.