5:2, Sometimes More

The day was in bloom with possibility; fragrant, lush, inviting. The sun, just waking, leaned itself on the crest of a mountain for support, but stumbled, spilling itself out onto the forest, painting it gold. Down in one of the winding trails they travailed through steep inclines and perilous walkways, overlooking beds of jagged rocky shores below. They came to a pass where the woods parted and they could see clear through out over the water that separated them from the mountain.

"Whoa, look," Dennis said, pointing. "Glad we called out today?"

"Yea; if I'm going to work it should be for something like this," Steve said, snapping a photograph.

They'd been planning a photo-hike for some time, but life had gotten in the way. Steve had a kid to take care of, a wife, precious little time for himself. He had recently gotten a promotion and didn't want to send the wrong message by irresponsibly taking a day for himself. No one would've known, Dennis had told him. True, but he would have. He was tired of feeling guilty about things, especially where indulgence was concerned. Dennis had received a promotion too, and found it to be too taxing. He believed this entitled him to leisure-time of his own, taking days to offset the disparity between that which was his and that which wasn’t. He evaluated it through the lens of quantity and frequency; work demanded so much time, so often, that surely it was sensible to steal a day here and there.

"I mean, when you think about it, it's bullshit; the ratio is 5:2, sometimes more. Who thought that was a good idea?" Dennis asked.

"Life is about time; it's all we have, and never enough," Steve said as they labored upward.

Up ahead a squirrel leapt from one branch to another, scurrying around the trunk of the tree like a furry insect. It was early enough that there was still dew on the ferns. They glistened in the morning light, long green fronds like fingers, all sparkling and betrothed. In the distance there was the sound of water running, the singing of birds.

A ritual dampness clung to moment, soaking through their shirts, through the air, into the earth.

The fog had already dissipated but it's memory still stuck to the leaves.