FerrisWheels

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We start and stop, wheezing into position. On the ground below us, we can barely see four teenage girls squeezing into a purple car. The operator is shaking his fist, telling them that they can only travel in couples. They shrug, blonde and green long hairs below us in the sun.

Your hand slips under the elastic of my skirt, fingering me. Darting our eyes about, we see no one watching us. We cannot see the couple in the blue swing, because we are right above them. You whisper that they are doing the same thing. I want to giggle at the pictures in my mind, but somehow I can't. I have forgotten what color her skirt is.

Mine is a rich vermillion, the color of the temples in Japan I want to see someday. Your hand holds swaths of the cotton, bunching it in front of my waist. We swing slowly this time and gently stop. Laughter (from the teenagers? the couple below us?) reaches us.

I squeeze your hand, and then reach slowly lower.

We have done this before. You lean over and nuzzle my ear, travel to my throat. My body constricts on its own, then welcomes you.

We let the memories of the times before take us through the now.

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