I laced up my trainers just after half five this morning, the kind of early that still feels a bit secret. Hackney was quiet in that soft grey way it gets before the buses start proper. Blonde hair shoved back in a messy tie, no makeup whatsoever, just me in an old running top and those leggings that have seen better days. I headed straight for the canal path because it’s the one stretch that never lets me down.
The first kilometre always feels like a negotiation. Legs a bit stiff from yesterday’s late finish at the bank, lungs taking a second to catch up. Then something clicks. By the time I passed the first bridge my stride settled and the whole world narrowed to the slap of trainers on path and the quiet slap of water against the sides. A couple of early cyclists nodded as they went by. One bloke walking his daft little terrier gave me a proper smile. I smiled back without thinking. It felt easy.
My mind started wandering the way it always does once the body takes over. Not work stuff, thank God. Not the under-25s or the latest spreadsheet that needs chasing. Just this picture that keeps turning up lately. Tall. Dark hair. Hands that look like they know exactly what they’re doing. I could almost feel them settling on my waist after a proper night out, the kind where the music’s still ringing in your ears and your feet ache in the best way. He’d pull me in close against a wall or the back of a taxi, nothing rushed, just that quiet certainty. The daydream got so vivid I nearly missed the turning by the old warehouse.
I kept running. The canal path opens up a bit further along and the light was starting to change, that watery April sun trying its best through the clouds. My legs felt strong today, proper athletic rather than forced. I like that feeling. It reminds me I’m still the same girl who used to tear around Basildon parks as a kid, only now the daydreams are different. Softer in some ways, hungrier in others. I want the whole package, don’t I? The rough and the gentle. Someone who can throw me about when the mood’s right and then sit with me in silence on a Sunday morning with a cup of tea. Is that too much to ask? Probably. Still can’t help hoping.
By the four-kilometre mark I was properly warm and the daydream had shifted again. Those hands sliding up my back, thumb brushing the nape of my neck, the sort of kiss that starts slow and then doesn’t stay slow. I actually laughed out loud at myself. A woman out running at dawn, cheeks flushed, inventing a whole future with a man who doesn’t even exist yet. Classic. The path curved and a pair of swans glided past like they owned the place. I slowed just enough to watch them. There’s something about water that always settles me.
Home was only another ten minutes once I left the canal. I walked the last bit, trainers dangling from one hand, barefoot on the cool pavement for a stretch because it felt good. Inside I drank a pint of water straight from the tap and stood in the kitchen in my socks, still a bit floaty from the run and the made-up story playing in my head. The flat was quiet. Just the usual tick of the boiler and the distant sound of someone else starting their day.
I keep thinking the right one will turn up when he’s meant to. Tall, dark, proper handsome, the sort who can match the energy I keep tucked away under the sweet face and the work uniform. Until then I’ll keep running the canal path and letting my mind wander. It’s free, after all. And some mornings, like this one, it feels almost close enough to touch.
