Fifty.

Dave had never been much of a runner. It wasn't that he was out of shape; he was thin, but he just never ran that often. But today, for whatever reason, was different. He felt like running, so he did. Grabbing a pair of dusty tennis shoes that had found their way to the dark corner of his closet, he put them on: left after right. They were a bit snug in the toe, but they would do.

He realized quickly why running was never one of his hobbies. While it was a beautiful October afternoon, his lungs were singing a different song. He heaved heavily as the cool autumn air filled them. Dave's goal wasn't lofty: "If I can just make it to the top of this hill," he said, "I'll be fine."

In order to distract himself from this daunting task, he decided to concentrate on his surroundings. Amber and golden leaves seemed to drip one by one from the trees; it truly was a sight. As he rounded the corner, however, he was haunted by the image of a girl staring at him through the window of a nearby blue house. Or, at least, he thought she was staring. His breathing grew heavier, and he had to fight to tear himself away from the pale, grey eyed figure gazing blankly into the distance. Dave looked to the sky, only to find that it was the same shade of blue as that house, and as her eyes. Not the girl's eyes, but hers.

The pale sun began to blind him, so he averted his eyes to the trees, and how they swayed easily in the wind as the leaves kept falling. It was the moss, this time, that reminded him of her. Dave remembered how she would wake up early in the morning sometimes and take a shower. And then, while he was still in bed, she would crawl up to him, skin damp, clean, and fragrant. Her hair would hang from her head loose and slightly curly, like the Spanish moss. Sometimes, warm drops of water would tickle and trickle onto his chest as she leaned in to give him a dewy kiss. He always liked her hair that way, but she didn't; she preferred it straight.

The top of the hill can't be that much farther, he thought. From behind, he heard the rhythmic breaths of others who would soon pass him on the trail. His lungs were about to burst. As they passed him like gazelles, he sneered. With each of their steps, he hated them even more, even though he didn't have the slightest idea as to who they were. A gust of cool wind, and even more leaves were falling.

There was a small creek to his left. The runners had passed, so he slowed down. The leaves in the water obscured most of his reflection, but another gust of wind revealed to him a tired and hollow face. Is that really me? he wondered. He kept staring at the creek, and how the tiniest stone created a new ripple in the stream. And then he thought about her again, and her butt. He loved it; it was always so smooth and cool and round like a weathered pebble, with slight dimples here and there. She hated those. Any time he tried to touch her there, she would release an exasperated sigh and roll onto her back. The leaves kept falling.

Each of Dave's feet weighed one thousand pounds now. His cheeks were blotched and red, and he was sure that his lungs were being digested by his stomach, and he was sure that he would never reach the top of the hill. He could feel his shoelaces coming undone. His toes began to throb. And the wind picked up right as his eyes left his feet, and the dry, dirty leaves poured into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see anything now. "Goddamn it," he cried. "I give up."

Like a wounded soldier, he fumbled over to the nearest park bench and sat down. He began to wipe the bits of leaves from his eyes. Once they were gone, he began to look around. He was at the playground: the top of the hill. "Would you take a look at that," he said while staring at his feet (they were dirty, untied, and still covered with bits of leaves), "I ran up a fucking hill in shoes that don't even fit."

Reminiscing in his newly-found nirvana, he studied the bench. He could barely make out the words written in ink. Etchings of colored-in hearts still remained, but they too were faint--each day slowly being bleached by the autumn sun. And then he looked to the trees: tall, thin, and (to him, at least) weak. He watched in disgust as they were pushed back and forth by something unseen and without weight. He saw the leaves falling, but this time they did not resemble jewels. One fell by his foot; he picked it up. While they glittered in the sunlight as they fell delicately to the floor, upon closer examination, he realized that they were transparent. And they were dead.

Dave released his skinny fingers from the brown leaf, and for a moment it flew like a sparrow, but soon it dropped like a stone. He didn't recognize it anymore. Dave looked to his dirty shoes once again, and began to tie them. He stood up: tall, thin, and tired, and admired the trees as they shed the dead from their wooden skin.

He moved his feet, and heard the faint snapping of a leaf. Moved the other, faster now. And then one more, and one more, and one more! His feet flew forward one by one until they were unstoppable. Snap, snap, snap! The wind tore through his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his hair, and crunch! went the leaves and I'm leaving it all behind me!