Bright. Flashy. Red. A dog runs across grass. A man chases. They blur together. Always the same commercial: a frisbee arcs overhead, the man’s gray sneakers fall apart mid-stride: stitching snaps, a sole flies. The dog veers, snatches the shoe from mid-air. Cut. YOU NEED NEW TENNIS SHOES.
The man returns. New shoes. Red. Ridiculous. He runs again, faster this time. Fur, sweat, flesh. He catches the frisbee just before it lands. He’s smiling. Gleaming. A dog barks. Cut. YOU NEED NEW TENNIS SHOES.

It played during every commercial break. At least once. Usually between ads for DoxyPep and free Grubhub delivery over $25. Eventually, I gave in. I’d arrived at a time in my life where I could believe in almost anything. New tennis shoes qualified. I didn’t buy the red ones. I bought black and blue ones. Cartoon blue.
The first run was two blocks. I stopped halfway, bent over, and vomited. The next day, I ran again. By the sixth run, I stopped throwing up. I started going every morning, short loops before work.

Two weeks in, I saw a flyer taped to the coffee shop window by my office: Saturday Run Club. 7:00 a.m. Park entrance. I began to go religiously.
One Saturday, a Man joined the run club. He wore soft shorts. Loose. His shoes were yellow. Not neon. Not fast-looking. Yellow, like a Labrador or old fruit. I hated them.
He ran behind me for a mile. Then next to me.

Then ahead. His breathing was even. One-two-one-two. I felt myself calibrating to him. His rhythm, his pace. I felt the corners of my mouth fight to not snag behind my teeth. I did not like him.

The next week: same shoes. Different socks. The others dropped off. Shin splints. Brunch. Hangovers. It became just us. We ran. No talking. No breaks. We’d start loose, side by side, then tighten into a single shape. A single forward urge. I stopped noticing street signs. My knees stopped hurting. I ran like I believed in something. He spat to the side and I watched it arc and land in perfect rhythm with my left footstep. I almost cried. We ran. Grunts. Half nods. A pointed finger if the sidewalk forked. We ran.

When it ended, we stopped at the usual bench. He clapped my shoulder.

“Same time next week?”

I nodded.

I Googled his shoes. Limited release. Japanese sole. I looked at the price tag and almost cried. He would be the type. It made me sick.

Next time, he didn’t stop running. He asked if I wanted to grab a beer. I said yes.

His apartment was clean and bright. The weight of it pressed against me. Expensive headphones, books with sharp spines, a laptop that gleamed like new. A trash can under the sink. He handed me a beer from the fridge. Imported. Of course.

We talked about food, nature, family and marriage. I nodded, but my eyes kept drifting to his yellow shoes sitting at the corner of his sofa. Ugly. Ridiculous. I hated them. I hated him for being so happy to wear something so gross. I hated that he could afford them. When he excused himself to the restroom, I picked them up. I remembered the price and almost decided to rip out the laces.  It was only when I lifted the shoes and placed them back down did the sharp, sweaty scent hit. The stink seemed to cut through all the noise of Life: my recent divorce, the negatives in my account, the wars, plural. None of it mattered. I closed my eyes. My chest loosened. Joy, stupid and simple, bloomed in the scent of that yellow sneaker.

He came back then, caught me sniffing and before I could drop it he gently placed my face deeper into the foam of his sneakers. He did not laugh.

I inhaled.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “that’s the secret. It’s in the dumb stuff, puppies chasing frisbees, and it’s in the tedious stuff, like buying new tennis shoes.”

I exhaled.