The Swing

During the day light hours, the swing hung from the enameled ceiling swaying in the torrid zephyrs of another Southeastern Kansas summer. Sometimes after the sun passed overhead, an errant gust made it sway ever so slowly, undulating to an arid rhythm no one heard. All day, every day, the swing sat in silence watching over the neighborhood.

When the sun finally dropped beneath the horizon, the swing became a teenage attraction as thrilling as a ride at the carnival. Surrounded by a wooden rail, the swing hovered over the open porch inviting all bold enough to approach, because at night “she” sat there, the Queen of the Night. Every summer she sat with her court as young men came to win her charms. He saw them all and wished he was among them but he knew he was too young for consideration.

Although she didn’t know it, she was the first female ever to arouse him directly. She probably didn’t even remember the occasion, but he never forgot. A fresh coat of gray enamel had the swing shining and smelling of new paint when it happened. The night was one of those star-spangled Kansas evenings when the moon is close enough to kiss and she alone in the swing.

Admiring her in the darkness from across the street, he imagined her semi-sweet chocolate skin and her dark dancing eyes. In the faint light from the porch window, he could make out the soft curve of her thigh and the gentle uplift of her breasts.

Feeling unusually bold, he crossed the street, walked up, and sat next to her in the swing. His presence didn’t startle her. They had been friends for as long as either could remember. Unknown to her his friendship stretched much deeper. That night he told how exactly how much deeper, but as he knew, the feeling wasn’t mutual. She let him down gently, but firmly. Nevertheless, he felt good about it all because he had the nerve to tell her. Despite her compassionate effort to let him down easy, she inadvertently ignited a flame that the gentle breeze from the swing only enhanced.

When she talked, she moved close and accidentally the bare skin of her leg touched him. If she moved by the touching experience she never showed it, but he felt liquid fire race through his veins, heat his face and settle in his loins with a warm fullness. As she leaned forward to comfort him, her breast brushed against his arm.

In that accidental moment, he turned suddenly and pressed his lips against hers. Her lips were soft and sweet. For a brief instant, she returned the kiss as he felt her tongue touch his in a searching manner and then, it was over. Without saying a word, she got up from the swing and went inside, leaving him alone with his thoughts swaying in the breeze to the soft squeak of the wooden seat.

He knew that she wouldn’t be coming back. So, he left, but when he did, he took something with him. When he looked back the empty swing still stirred in the night breeze, but the light in the window died. That night was the last time she sat in the swing alone.

Life moved on since then but that moment stills fans an eternal ember. The rush of throbbing passion still swings barely out of reach. It is tantalizing, swinging like a pendulum in his mind heightening imagined reality even more. The heat of that summer night still penetrates. The soft touch of young thighs lingers. The dreams unspoken and the deeds undone remain warm fantasies. In some ways, it is the best of all worlds.

There is no disappointment, only pleasant memories. There are no angry encounters, only pleasant thoughts. No reality to spoils it. It is clear a thought that makes the mouth water, the legs tighten and the body tingle.

It is locked in another world and now it is among the purest of loves—a love that can’t be ruined by the close contact of human frailty. That swing is long gone now due to the ravages of time and neglect. Yet, in his heart it is still as steady as that first night breeze many summers ago.