three steps behind

I always walk three steps behind him.

I've lost track of the times he's shouted at me to keep up, but it's easier said than done. He’s taller than me, stronger than me, faster than me. He doesn’t trip over his own feet, or slip on muddy paths, or unexpectedly get accosted by low-hanging branches.

Sometimes – when I’m cold, and hungry, and tired, which is often – I wonder whether it wouldn’t be best for me just to run back to Rome, so I can’t get in his way any more.

I suppose there are compensations though.

The view, for one.