Running Past the Esso

Somewhere in this city—Mitte, Prenzlauer Berg, Friedrichshain, doesn’t really matter—there’s an apartment I want to live in. Good bones, natural light, just enough space, nothing out of place. I’ve been collecting interior references for months, obsessing over rooms I’ll probably never afford in neighborhoods that’ll price me out before I get there.

Despite leaving at a different time every morning, catching whatever train arrives first, getting into whichever car I happen to be standing in front of—I keep seeing the same faces on the U-Bahn. The two-meter woman in the pale blue jacket who reminds me of the giant from Big Fish. The compact businessman drilling vocabulary from index cards, flipping through them like he’s racing some private deadline. The model face with the iPod, using the dark window as a last-minute mirror to finish their makeup before the next stop. I sit down, put on music, and feel strangely at home in the company of strangers I’ll never speak to.

It’s been a long time since I actually ran for a girl. All the way across my neighborhood to the Esso station, past the Wilmersdorfer Arcaden, past the guys standing around looking purposefully hostile, past a Turkish woman who stared at me like I was about to use her as a launch ramp. I arrived. I kissed her. I was somewhat out of breath. But I felt good.

I should run more often. Not only when there’s a reason.