It was dark outside, probably 10 o’clock at night and much too late for me to be going out. Yet out I was. It was a pleasant enough night, not many clouds in the sky, and stars bright enough to blind. I sat, bemused, on the swings, watching my first love run around in only his underwear. We had been playing truth or dare, and, well, I suppose you can guess what his dare was. That park was funny, though. It was full of paradoxes. The swings were spiteful of the slide, because so many more children played on it, so they hung low to the ground in their depression. Yet these were the swings where we had our first kiss. The elegant flow of the slide was too perfect for our relationship. It wasn’t like the simple metal structure, nor was it like the grotesque wooden bridge that had splinters ready to prick at any moment. Our love wasn’t the nefarious merry-go-round, (you know, the kind the kids push each other around in?), which makes everyone sick at least once in their childhood. No, our love was more akin to the swings, those low-hanging wonders that let you fly so high. It was the pumping legs, the winded breathing, the excitement of being higher than your parents. It was the cosmic rush of life as your butt left the rubber seat.
It was the pain of the landing running through the muscle and bone, sinking deep into the joints, making it hard to move again.
