I heard his footsteps before I saw him down the empty road. The stars were in the sky and a half moon shined. On the footpath, I had already spread out the rug. I had also scolded my wife again for the torn pillow that she hadn’t stitched during the day. She was busy, she said, because there were more rags to pick than usual. She wasn’t sleeping on any pillow, she complained. I ignored. The night had gone quiet since, before his footsteps were heard.
He was wearing leather shoes and nothing else. In the moonlight, the sweat on his body shined silver as he ran on the middle of the road towards me. Every two steps he ran, he turned back to see if he was followed. Was there anyone else behind him? I could not see, nor hear. The man ran past me as if I was a ghost.
The rhythm of his shoes hitting the road echoed through the night.
Tap – top – tap – top – tap …
“Wait”, I screamed.
He stopped. Tap and a top and a delayed tap as he turned to look at me.
His body belonged to a rich man, like those who go about in cars but look like gods. Even between his legs, he looked strong. I heard shuffling behind me and my wife stood next to me. When she saw him, she let out a gasp. Gently, she slipped her arm around mine.
He walked towards me. With every step he took, my wife’s hand clutched me harder. Was she scared or excited by the man? I wanted to see where she was looking, but the man had almost reached me. His hot breath misted in the cold air. His eyes looked dark.
“Why are you running?” I asked.
“I killed a man”, he said. His voice was hollow as if it was he who was dead.
I looked down the road. There wasn’t anyone following him.
“Whom are you running from?” I asked.
My wife was breathing hard. Her grip was so tight that my left hand below the elbow had gone numb.
“I am running from the man I killed”, he said.
My wife gasped. “Can you see anyone else?” I snapped at her. She shook her head no.
I turned back to the man. “Then, run”, I told him. “Because the one you are running from will never stop.”
He nodded, looked at my wife and I could feel her squeezing the juice out of my hand.
I looked as the man ran away, his buttocks bouncing to the rhythm of his shoes. Even after he had rounded the corner I could hear his steps.
Tap – top – tap – top – tap …
I didn’t see or hear anyone following him, but how could I? Guilt doesn’t wear leather shoes.
As his steps faded, I went back to my rug and spread myself. My wife was breathing softly beside me. The night grew silent again. My hand was still numb.
“How long do you think he will run?” I asked my wife.
But, she was already asleep.
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