a walk in the park
… I’m giving you The Look, which you generally kind of pretend-ignore to make me force whatever point I’m trying to make. You’ve not left the house in a couple of days and I’m promising ice cream if you do. I’m a little perturbed when you’re out of it enough to just go along with The Look, grabbing a midi dress and a summer hat. Your figure is slim, it having been a couple of days since that jogger by the canal.
The park is close enough to walk but I drive us, impatient to put the housing estate behind us and plop you in nature.
You’re a little quiet as we get out of the car, picnic blanket but no picnic under my arm, and find the little river that runs through the park. You catch me looking concerned, and I think you look like you might be feeling guilty or something, so I make a show of grabbing your hand and pulling you close.
“I’m glad you came out, but you needn’t force being all smiles or whatever. I hope being outside will be nice, but be as you are. No stress.”
You’re kind of used to me overthinking how I can best take care of you by now, so you return my hand-squeeze and nod. I kiss your cheek.
We saunter along the riverside. I’m going on and on about yew trees again, and how they’re the deadliest plant in the UK—not realising I do this roughly once a month. I ask if you’re playing anything, and get excited as you describe your latest interest. The walk doesn’t remove the cause of your mood, but brings a kind of respite.
We pass others as we walk: couples, an old man, a group of kids, families. I nod at a inll of them as we pass.
One lone kid kicking a football with his dog manages to knock your hat off with an errant shot. The cheeky fuck calls out, “that ball, mate,” expecting us to kick it back. I glance at you, handing you your hat back, and seeing an answer, smile at the kid.
“Sure thing.” A kick goes awry: the ball bounces into the shaggy crown of a weeping willow. “Whoops.”
The kid says something he’d rather not have been among his final words, and runs towards the canopy. You stroll in the same direction and meet him there.
You’re an expert. He never stood a chance. The dog and I watch for surely only seconds. I fancy I can hear lip smacking and gulping over the sound of the river, but there’s no mistaking the funeral knell: bwrooOOarp.
The dog, barking, sprints towards the sound as you emerge from the whips. I’m first worried by the angry Staffy and start running towards you to intercept. Didn’t need to worry: You fix it with a glare and make the softest growl in the back of your throat. Some canine telepathy freezes the poor thing’s blood and it runs away as far as it can, even as its erstwhile master still struggles and kicks in your belly.
I jog to meet you. Your cheeks have colour in them, you’re breathing deeper, you have a half-smile on your face. I wrap you in a powerful hug. You open your mouth to say something but I cover it in a deep kiss, while crushing the kid tighter into your belly with my own. More pressure, more sensation: it feels kind of like there are two in there, for a moment.
Once he stops trying to escape, and then trying to breathe, I draw back. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, your smile lazy: you seem sleepy rather than horny. The late afternoon sun is still warm.
It doesn’t take five minutes to follow the river to the playing fields. I roll out the picnic blanket on a grassy bank and leave you only to buy you that ice cream.
We spend a pleasant hour lounging and lazing. I keep buying you ice creams, mesmerized by how you lick them until they are just cone, solid white transmuted to sweet liquid by the heat of your tongue. I knead the great doughy swell of your stomach, which is already breaking down its cargo. The sounds it makes are luscious and expressive, and scare off another young couple who were seated nearby. You get the hiccups. When I laugh you threaten to eat me for the first time in days, which makes me enormously happy.
You finally fall asleep with your head in my lap, feeling my hand stroking through your hair, watching clouds that grow tinged with orange.