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The Last Swing

My sneakers slapping the pavement, purse jingling against my hip sound so loud against the otherwise quiet night. A dark night, punctuated only by the orange globes cast by street lights. I've lived in this suburban nightmare for years, and yet there are no doors familiar to me. No haven my knock would beckon.

My lungs scream for rest. I push on just a little more, to the park around the corner. My endurance may be lacking, but fortituted, I've a plenty.

The playground is eerie absent children, but not so scary.

Warm Santa Anta winds sway the empty swings.

Clink...

I drop my purse and sit on the rubber strip waiting for my heart to slow down.

I lick a salty tear from the corner of my mouth. It tastes like pennies, blood. He must have hit me harder than I thought. Tomorrow and the days after my face would be purple. I would be showered in apologies, and excuses. Neither genuine. They would fade and so would the bruises. And so would I.

I look back the way i'd come, and then to where I might go. I pick up my purse and keep on going.