It's not your fault

Tonight I exhausted myself with a lengthy, wild, sweat-soaked work-out. My limbs are now sore and heavy, my eyelids droop. (The tequila I've imbibed does not help stir me out of lethargy.)
I began with a feverish run -- a short distance, only three and a half miles, at a minor incline.
I've read novels in which characters remedy their angst or sorrow through exercise. They bury their emotional pain beneath pain more physical. I've never been able to do that, myself. So much of my ability to exert myself physically lies in my psychological state that I've always been more or less hamstrung by emotional distress.
Not tonight, though.
As I ran, the raucous music blaring insistently in my ears, I focused on the center of my emotional distress; I focused on her. I did not work through the problem, trying to reach some zen-like acceptance of my fate or see my way to a solution. Instead, I ran into my distress. I let it surround me, infuse me, body and soul. I am reminded now, looking back, of a comic book. In it, Superman, needing to heal, to recharge, to increase his powers, flies straight through the sun itself. It is a ludicrous plot conceit, even for comic books, but an apt comparison, nonetheless.
I devoted my every feeling, every breath to thoughts of her -- her smile, her eyes, her scent. Her body, tight yet supple. The graceful lines of her clavicle and the flawless swoop of her lower back. I thought about resting a hand there as I drew her close, pressing myself against her.

 The music rang, Awolnation's Not Your Fault.
"And baby when I'm yellin' at you, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
I cranked the speed to eight miles an hour.
"'Cause baby I am crazy for you; it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
To nine miles an hour.
"And maybe I'm a little confused, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
Ten.
"But baby that's some wonderful news. It's not your fault, it's not your fault.
And oh, it's not that you should care; I just wanted you to know."

Even in the delirious heat of the sprint I smiled. She can hardly be held accountable for being perfect, can she?