The origin story with a bite.

“Oh god. I’m sorry!”

“F$&k!”

“She’s a rescue.”

“Protective.”

“I feel a bit faint…”

I’m in a cubicle. Looking at the floor. Grey speckled linoleum. And Blue curtains. With the army-worthy defined creases. It’s 11:11. Today.

Eating jellybeans. The ones with gelatin. That vegans won’t eat. They are checking if I’ve had tetanus. After she told me I looked white.

I just got bitten by my neighbour’s dog. Named after a grape. And wine.

On my way back from a 7km run. One of those runs that leaves you feeling unnaturally powerful. Crazily invincible. Like you can run with life’s present weight and not miss a stride or beat. Like Clark Kent as he turns into Superman.

Still riding the ‘runner’s high’ wave. Still warm from the sun. Still comforted by the intense cardiovascular conditioning I’ve come to love, appreciate. Crave.

When I see my neighbour, and his protective pal. We do the-neighbourly-right-thing dance. Swap surface level stories. Snippets. Of lives that only cursorily cross. As she comes to me, his hesitant canine comrade. Waiting to be patted.

Until.

She didn’t.

I’ve always wondered what it would feel like. A curiosity of sorts. How the threat of something small and innocent, in a split-second turns into something bigger. Bad. Momentarily, a little wrong. Like Bruce Banner as he became the Hulk.

Then. In a single, sharp inhale of breath...

Pain.

Shock.

Fear.

Helplessness. As all the post-run-feel-good chemicals, instantaneously drained away. Like a plug being pulled. Like Peter Parker as his web-shooters ran out of web.

There’s an instant intimacy. That bonds strangers. That unites the unintended. That ties us together. Even more so with one-hand with a tattoo of a tuning fork.

We sit there. On grey plastic chairs. Moulded together. Like a new-found bond. My neighbour and me. Getting to know each other. For the very first time. In nine years. The most we have ever spoken to each other. The longest we have sat side-by-side. The 6ft guy in glasses, with a baseball cap. The 5ft runner with a bleeding hand, and bionic eyes. Like the T-800 and John Connor.

For a few short hours, we forget. Why we were there. What brought us together. The story of repeated “sorry’s,” and multiple, “it’s ok.”

Two humans. In the most unlikely of scenarios. Brought together as life did what it does best: messily and unexpectedly, bites. Breaks the bold. Tears at the skin. Weakens the worried. And wise.

Where we get to choose.

Who we really want to be. In the face of the unexpected, unplanned for. Uncomfortable. And unwanted. Like the reluctant superhero with undies on backwards and strangling cape.

My hand will heal. The puncture wounds will fade.

I'll remember the un-vegan jellybeans. And kindness of the nursing staff.

But it's the gratitude, that'll stay with me. For the neighbour who became a friend.

And, like every origin story. It started with pain.

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