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My Love Story
Rain. It always rains. Grey skies, grey earth, grey rain. It’s always the same.
But the rain, it’s really not so bad. When you walk in it, it hugs you, tells you stories, whispers in your ears. Dances in your hair, traces your skin, touches your face, like a lover.
She shook her head. The raindrops fell a second time.
Nobody will ever love me.
Even after just a few blocks, she was soaked. Rain and mist danced and mingled, making the park look magical. Swings, slides, see-saws, monkey bars, acrobat bars, climbing bars, more real, more there, more than just existing. Scrapes and bruises, falls and bumps, stories trapped forever on play things.
Her favorite swing was wet, but so was she. It was perfect for her. In the trees in the park, she could hear, but not see. Tall enough her toes skimmed the ground; she had to wait to slow down.
The other swing she used sometimes, but it creaked, needed to be greased. Maybe if she used it more, it would no longer squeak.
Steady rhythm helps me think. I want my father to be happy, I want school to go well, I want to figure out what I want to do.
She took out the cork and spilled the thoughts on the ground.
“I hope you pick those up before you leave. Otherwise it’s littering,” the boy said.
He stepped out of the trees and stood by the swing.
It’s the new boy from down the street. That jock. Stop. He doesn’t like me. Why should I like him?
One by one he picked up the scattered thoughts, but could not read them. He put them in a pile, and sat on the swing.
It didn’t squeak. The joints aren’t rusted, like someone’s been using it.
“I’ve seen you playing with you dog. You look so happy at those times…and so beautiful,” said the boy.
It shocked her to stillness. Moments later she was still on the swing.
He came in front of her, cupper her face in his hands. She didn’t lean in, but she didn’t pull away either.
“Yes, you’re beautiful. So beautiful I want to kiss you. Will you let me kiss you?” he asked.
He brushed her bangs out of her eyes, and he kissed her.