The One After That

I met you at the park while I was feeding the birds. You said you weren’t doing much of anything; “Just swinging.” Your child was there. Between her trips down the slide and falling off the monkey bars she’d run up to you and chat. Once about her ring pop falling down, another about a kid who gave her their hair clip. You’d rustle her hair, the corners of your eyes would crinkle, and she’d return to play.

The sky grew dimmer, the birds came in fewer flocks, and you began warning Naja that she had but ten minutes left. You offered me a ride back to my place, and I wondered why anyone would drive out to a park to begin with. But I accepted. I told you where I stayed, and Naja kicked rocks all the way to the car. You and I spoke on the drive, but truth be told, most of it was spent listening to you and her.

“I think swimming’s better this year,” Naja said from the backseat.

“Yeah, hun. You look a lot less tentative diving,” you responded.

“What does ‘ten…’—‘ten-ta-tive’ mean?”

“Uh, you seemed more confident. Self-assured. This time around.”

I looked at you, smiled, and then echoed, “Self-assured.”

Naja hummed for a beat and then broke it:

“When are we gonna build the pool?”

“When? A pool’s gonna take a lotta money, hun.”

“You’ve got more than that.”

You chuckled.

“I can tell you, you’re looking at a fair bit for a pool.”

I faced you. “Hey, between you and her cookies, that pool just might happen.”

She eyed you down. “See. This is the kind of energy we need around here. Hmph.”

You chuckled once more, then turned to me. “Right at the light, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You drove down my street, slowing down as we got up the hill.

“It’s uh, the white garage door.”

You indicated left.

“Not that one, the one after.”

“This one?”

“No, my bad, the one after that,” I said, pointing at my house.

“You’re good, you’re good.”

You pulled in.

“Thanks for the ride, see you around.”

“See ya.”

“Goodbye Naja!”