The Park

Do you think we were in love?

I look at her but she's looking away from me and I realize I didn't actually say anything. The day around us is ending, none of the families are at the playground anymore and the group playing frisbee on the field is wrapping up, taking off cleats and passing beers around. The sky is dimming from a brilliant pink to a soft lavender color and the sound of cicadas grows louder in the dusk.

We've been talking all day but it doesn't feel like we've talked about anything at all. There is one question that sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach and the day's meandering conversations have left me exhausted.

The scene pans back to reveal two exhausted people on a park bench. They sit appropriately close to one another, but the distance is like the opposite poles of a magnet, pushing them apart. Each one has something on their mind that stays below the surface. But there is a long moment between the excitement of the sunset and the heaviness of night that they spend in mutual loneliness, watching for the first stars to appear. The moon hangs heavily on the horizon and the dusk is not as oppressive as the day.

One of the girls is blond with a bowl cut. It's flat in the back where she slept and didn't bother to fix it. The other girl has bangs that are a little greasy and flip uncooperatively to one side to reveal a cowlick on her hairline. They have both sat here before, years ago, when their hair was longer and they both wore floral dresses that were so short. There were bows in their hair and their fingernails were chewed down and each one had a heavy backpack that leaned up against each other, forgotten behind the bench. They might have leaned in close to each other before bursting apart laughing, papers and printed photos scattering between them. Their skirts are not long enough but their world consists of just them so they only absent-mindedly tug at the hems as they lean close together again.

The present scene is presented again as a contrast to that time. Their eyes are darker, their hair more experimental. They both are wearing heavy layers of clothes although the night is warmer than it was back then. The blond girl's cheeks are sallower, the brunette girl's are heavier.

Suddenly a memory emerges in both of their minds simultaneously. You are running to catch a bus. You are on a bus immersed in a journal, an open book laying with its pages exposed next to you. You try to appear calm as you breathlessly deposit funds into the machine and the unimpressed driver prints a transfer.

You notice a boy a little older than you sitting behind the driver and you blush as you speed to the back of the bus and duck your head into a seat. You haven't looked up from your journal. You haven't looked away from the window.

It's not until the bus stops at its final destination that you see a blond girl getting off the bus in front of you. She is walking to the free mall ride, you catch up to her as she steps on board. Giggling, you creep up behind her. She doesn't know who you are and steps aside.

Then there is the moment of recognition. It is such a sweet moment. The doors to the bus are open and people continue to board the bus around the two girls who are laughing hysterically and hugging and stumbling. They are just two bushy heads and skirts and backpacks.

She is hugging you so tightly and you are manic with the serendipity of the moment as you ask her if she was on the 16. You suddenly have nowhere to be. You are only 17. It is the summer solstice.

The night arrives at the bench and I still haven't said anything. There are two clear paths in my head, one impossible to take at this time. I would ask her if we had been in love back then. I would ask her if that was what it was like to be in love and if she hates me now for our friendship. I would ask her what happened between us to make us hate each other.

The other path isn't worth mentioning.

We both stand up eventually. There is a cold wind as we walk through the center of the soccer field to the parking lot. I become aware that I am walking alone after a minute and stop. She is a dark figure in the grass.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," she says and it feels like I'm having a heart attack. This is what I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting her to say it.

"What do you mean?" I ask and hate myself for playing dumb.

"I hate seeing you," she says. "I loved you but then you judged me for changing. You can't even use my pronouns."

"I love you too," I say. "I loved you back then. I've loved you for a long time." I have to swallow the rest or I'll start crying.