We Dream of Mountains

He went for his jog even earlier than he normally did, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible. The night hadn't been good to him; he'd spent much of it dreaming of seizing the opportunity and kissing Mac. The jog, then, served the purpose of releasing the sexual tension between his shoulder blades, and was much less relaxing than he needed it to be. He couldn't stop thinking.
Was she flirting with him? Was he flirting back? Should he have told her about his wife? Was he doing something wrong? (No, that was ridiculous. He hadn't done anything.) Why did he feel so guilty? What the hell was he doing?

By the time he reached Mac's house, he had to stop for a break, though he was more mentally exhausted than physically. Surprisingly, Mac was outside, sitting on her stoop with a blue and green mug in hand. It was windy for 5AM, and she had her nose scrunched up in cold as her hair whipped around.

"Morn'," he panted, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

"Geez, Old Man," she joked, standing up. "How are you out of breath already?"

He merely shook his head. This was not his morning.

"Come in and get warm, then," she said. She didn't wait for an answer, just waltzed inside, leaving the door slightly cracked. He followed her, of course. It was like he couldn't help it.

Tink wasn't there to greet him. He missed the little retriever mix, and was sad not to see her wagging her tail at him in happiness.

"She's at a friends," Mac explained without waiting for him to ask. She wasn't anywhere to be seen either, and he followed the sound of her voice to the kitchen, where she was putting the stove on. "Cuppa?"

"Yeah, thanks."

She brought down an orange and white mug with a pink owl on it from a cabinet. He tried not to notice that she had to stand on her tippy-toes to get it, and that his first instinct was to reach above her to get it down, just as he used to do with his wife. He suddenly felt guilty again.

"Here," she said, handing him the mug. "It's all I've got."

They stood awkwardly in the kitchen for a few minutes while the water boiled.

"Why are you up so early?" he asked with a slight cough.

Mac shrugged. "I'm excited."

He raised his eyebrows. "Big day?"

She nodded, smiling. The grin took up her whole face, making it light up. Whatever it was, she was exuberant at the mere thought.
Before he could ask what it was she was so excited for, the kettle chose that moment to let out a shrill whistle. Rude.

He immediately turned to click the stove off, anticipating that the stove she had was the same as his own. She came up behind him, reaching over his arm to turn the stove off. He was startled at her presence, and twisted to look at her, tangling his legs with hers. They both nearly fell over, but he kept them upright by grabbing onto the side of the counter as she continued to fiddle with the stove.

She laughed, looking at him, and he reached up without thinking to fix her hair, which had gotten mussed up in the mix-up. As he tucked a stray piece of it behind her ear, he remembered his dream. He wondered if that was the moment he was supposed to kiss her. He wondered if he could be that type of person.

"I'm married," he blurted out seriously, expecting the wide grin on her face to falter. His heart was pounding in his chest, though he didn't know why he was so nervous.

To his surprise, she merely laughed again. "I know."

"What?!"

"I said I know." She laughed. "I've met your wife. She's quite lovely."

He felt startled, relieved, panicked, and angry all at the same time.

"I thought . . ." he trailed off, unable to say exactly what it was he had thought. That they were flirting. That he was a terrible person.

"I understand."

He couldn't think of anything to say at all.