Read Online Eye Contact by Michael Craft - Free Book Online Page B

precision overhead. The only other objects, he concludes, in his entire new world are the shoes on his feet—white leather running shoes, his favorite pair, the ones he wore the morning when he first had sex with Neil, the ones that have taken on the power of a fetish, their laces crusty with the spatters of uncounted orgasms. The thought of losing them to the heavens is unspeakably painful. The shoes, he decides, must stay.
    Manning has been running since high school, at times escaping something, at other times pursuing. He ran on a cross-country team because he was told it was required. Later, in college, he ran for the enjoyment of it. In adult life, in the real world, he rediscovered it and hoped it might forestall middle age. But the revelation he expected least was the hedonistic pleasure of running, the erotic element that scratches his consciousness every time he laces up those shoes. He has run on cinder tracks, on city streets, on the shore of Lake Michigan, and on a mountain road one Christmas morning in Phoenix. He has run in his dreams as well, a recurring dream in which he returns to a hometown where he never grew up. Running there, he has flown, taken flight, soared above a fluttering tunnel of elms and convulsed in midair, shooting semen into a pristine blue sky.
    But this is different. Neither blue sky nor fluttering elms are here to conjure memories of a childhood never known. There is no cinder track, no lakeshore, no mountainside—there is only the compacted vastness of an empty world.
    Manning moves. He steps forward, and the entire globe turns beneath his feet, as if riding on frictionless ball bearings. He walks faster, and the rotation of the planet increases. The pinprick sun moves faster overhead and begins to set behind him, stretching his infinitely long shadow beyond the horizon. Night falls instantly. Manning quickens his pace, knowing that the rosy tinge of morning can be only a few strides ahead.
    And there it is. The sun pops into view again and begins another ascent toward Zarnikal noon.
    Manning shifts to a faster pace and achieves a running stride. Both feet momentarily leave the ground. His toes tap the surface, sending him forward with longer and longer leaps, nearly weightless. His breathing adjusts to the greater exertion; his lungs are fueled by the clouds. He circumnavigates the planet so quickly now that the sun rises and sets with dizzying regularity. He could run like this forever. And although he has already traversed great distances, he realizes that all his efforts have moved him nowhere—planet Zarnik spins beneath the worn treads of his shoes, but he’s still seven billion miles from home.
    It’s as if he’s running in place, yet he’s unquestionably in motion. The minimal landscape rushes past him. The sun continues to circle. And the endless long-fingered clouds streak overhead in perpetual winds. Their sagging tendrils of vapor whip past him, through his hair, around his body, sliding across his skin, invading every pore, picking at each follicle. The relentless gusts turn playful, scrambling between his legs, licking at his testicles, caressing his penis, which swells at the touch.
    He slows his pace to savor these sensations and clears his mind of the frettings that clutter his waking hours—time, distance, speed, goals. His head tilts back and his mouth gapes open so he can gulp at the clouds and feel their presence within him. Strands of his hair (it has grown quickly here) tickle his shoulders. His pace has slowed to a walk. A shuffle. He stops.
    He squats, resting in the powdery sand, still breathing deep, not from exertion but with excitement. With the tips of his fingers, he feels his hardened nipples. He slides his hands to let his palms rub his buttocks. But just when his senses are shuttering themselves, blinded to every stimulation but pleasure, Manning notices his shoes. One of them has come untied, its laces drooping in a loose, sloppy knot.
    Manning