paper straws and clogs and rain soaked hair

There is nothing more fitting than the tension that was held between us that was as thick as solid grease, unable to be washed away by the rain. It was silence from an otherwise tried and true mouth, lungs expanding and slowly collapsing in on itself, but never to the point of failure.

A hand grips mine as I envelop my mind with the task of sucking the sickly sweet ice from an infamous paper straw. The sky was as dark has my heart had felt in the day that had passed, and the handful of cars that had not fallen asleep were scrambling to their destination. Life passes by, lives unfamiliar to myself and ones that I would never cross paths with. I am lead into a field of grass, of which during the daytime held matches of lawn bowling, of all things. Now it is empty, and now it is just the two of us.

A kiss on the forehead that earns a quiet snicker, an action and a responsive noise that illicit normalcy, or a hopeful spark of it. Down a path and further into the community lot, lead through a sandy playground that leaves its mark in my clogs. The sand is expectedly gritty beneath my feet, turning soggy from the trickling rain. A moment passes before I find us on a seesaw, true to the hazy memories of my childhood. I was soon whisked away by the promising floodlight from the lamp above shimmering on the wet pavement of the cement that our steps become accustomed to.

The few heartbeats that it takes to look for the perfect song is awkward, clunky even. Yet the smile I had been rewarded with made it worth the wait. The steps of no particular dance was worse, but it had some beauty within it. It felt human, it felt romantic. The dances that followed and had lasted not even a minute had bled into an embrace. Just the two of us, the night sky shimmering with stars hidden by a blanket of city smog. The air smelled crisp, a muddy moistness potent but comforting; a perfect night.