You always loved midway rides. The rush of being so high and the weightless moment before coming down. So much like us. Without our final crash and burn when we raged through days.
Now, my fingers sticky with cotton candy, a smear of icing sugar across the shoulder of your dark blue shirt that was worn out even then. These years have passed and we have spent the afternoon laughing.
My hands are claws around the safety bar. We have reached the zenith. I close my eyes. The negative image left on my eyelids: my bare thigh pressed against yours. The heat from you seeps through the seam of your jeans, into muscles nerves bone.
We start to drop. Your hand does too, brushing the edge of my skirt. A whisper across my inner thigh. The wind through my hair. You press more firmly up over the curve of fat. We start our way back up again. My body knows exactly what to expect. I shift, spread.
The top again.
I open my eyes, keep my breath tucked in my lungs. You catch the edge of my panties with your index finger, pull them to the side. In this second, we defeat gravity, hanging against our weight. Your middle finger runs the length of my slit, splitting me wetly open for more.