The Swings by Lexa

The creak of the swing left a bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

I loved swings; they’re so soothing when it comes to thoughts that corrode the mind better than any acid known to chemists. The quiet, quiet creak of iron long since rusted away....

A sharp voice cuts through the quiet, anxious atmosphere of the playground, painfully familiar, though my mind would rather forget those notes and that tone.

‘Hello. Long time no see...’

‘Hello.’

The silence lasts an agonisingly long time, stretching out like the nougat in a rather mediocre sweet. 

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘There’s nothing to say; you know it all yourself.’

‘That’s true.’

Silence again. I’d like to apologise, to say at least something meaningful so that the person doesn’t leave with a heavy, wounded heart. But I could have avoided it and just talked. 

- I know.

- What are you talking about?

- It’s my own fault. 

- For what?

- You know everything yourself. 

A sudden smile spreads across the person’s face, quietly filling the space with light on a rather gloomy spring day. 

- I’ve forgiven you. 

A stone fell and shattered with a crystalline sound. The swing no longer creaks with the painful sound of iron; I am finally free. 

And then, the café, the usual order and that same table in the corner with a pile of new stories, everything as usual.

And the swing swaying in the wind outside the window.