Emil, part two

Edgemont Park, Montclair. In the dark, he pushes me back and forth on a swing set, on a surprisingly cool June night. Fireflies. Only a streetlight. His fingers lower on my back than -- they had to be. Keeping an eye out. Cautious, but not stopping. Push. Creak. Push. Creak. Push.

We had walked the railroad track earlier that day, one foot in front of the other along the smooth, rounded rail. A balancing act; him in front of me, me tracing his footsteps.

After the swing that night, back to my house. I switch the lamps off. He turns them back on. He can see my glare in the moonlight; he turns one back on. Then, the all too-familiar ritual: trying to come together, trying to hug, fingers trying to open shirts. His hands hold my hips, thumbs in the belt loops.

"What's the difference if we do something?" I asked.

"Yes, what is the difference? So why do it?"

"You know you want to." I put my face against his neck.

"Stop," he whispered.

"What do you want do, play Monopoly?" I pushed him down on the bed and he didn't get up. He didn't do anything. He wanted me to want him, I think. I think that was the game.

When I moved to New York two months later, he stopped calling. He didn't come into town. Too far away to see someone's devotion, he moved on.

Yes, go back to your half-"girlfriend". Go back to your half-"rock band". Go back to your full-time delusions. Fuck. If only I could only have learned my lesson then.