When I bought Haris running shoes, he said they were nice and immediately checked whether I had kept the receipt. I took that as beginner's insecurity. I had run for years and believed people only needed to endure the first uncomfortable mornings before loving what I loved. Haris enjoyed long breakfasts and repairing old radios. We met at mutual friends', where he listened for two hours to my account of a race.
I assumed his interest in me was the beginning of interest in sport. I invited him for a gentle run, then a shorter one, then one I promised would barely involve running. Each time he reluctantly agreed and returned tired, without the joy I expected. I said it took time. He said he believed me. Neither voiced the simple fact that he might never enjoy rising early to make himself deliberately breathless.
Before the city race I suggested entering together. Haris finally said no, clearly, without explanations about work or weather. I felt disappointment greater than an entry deserved. I said I wanted to share important things with someone I loved. He asked whether that meant I must learn to repair radios. I began saying it was different, then stopped. His evenings at the workbench mattered no less because they did not end with a medal.
On race day I went alone to the start. Haris wished me luck and said he would wait afterward. While running I repeatedly imagined him sleeping and grew unfairly angry. When I crossed the finish, he stood beyond the barrier with my jacket and a pastry I liked. He did not know whether my result was good. He asked how it had been. For the first time I answered about the feeling, not only the time.
Later I accompanied him to a small secondhand electronics fair. I understood half of what he examined and did not pretend otherwise. He showed me a radio reminding him of childhood. I listened to the story without trying to prove interest by buying my own. Since then I run some Saturdays while he eats breakfast. Sometimes he waits for me; sometimes he has his own plans, and afterward I tell him what I want to share.
We exchanged the running shoes for a pair he enjoyed walking in. I regretted the money less than the certainty with which I had selected his future habit. Haris wore them when we went beside the river. We walked slowly enough for him to finish describing noise he had finally removed from an old radio. I did not check our distance. I had a race the following month and a man with whom I did not always need to be on the same course.