never completely black because they’re always there, even if you can’t make them out straight away. He smiled again, then looked a bit sad. “I think I need to go home. It’s eleven o’clock,” he said, looking at his watch, and he stood up. Me too. I picked up my empty tea cup from the dirt below the swings. We were standing there looking at each other. I blinked. Goodnight. He walked away, into the muddy light of the road. When he turned the corner I sat back down and started swinging hard, higher and higher, until I had tired myself out enough to go home.
The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com