The game starts, as it always does, on the mulch by the back slide. It doesn’t matter who is It because he’s playing. Blond hair, navy slacks, white polo; his head flashes by the monkey bars. You make for the parallel bars base and you’re almost there when you feel it: a push between your shoulder blades. “Freeze,” they cry, and you stop, exposed mid-playground. But then he comes for you, diving from the asphalt, a mad dash of fingertips. Your body unlocks and he smiles at you before he’s off again and you follow, wings unfurling from your heart.
Salena Casha’s most recent work can be found on HAD, Wrong Turn Lit, and The Colored Lens. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com.