He goes back even farther (fiction)

To the playground and the swing. The slide. The blue sky above. White wisps. Cigarette butts. Those kids who played to hurt one another. Those kids. That day that he wanted to play with them, but couldn't stand up, walk over, to ask. Sitting on his banana seat. The purple Sprinter. New from the Coop store. His first new bike. That he chose from the line-up, leaning in a row, one on the other. A phalanx of rubber and chrome, just past the electronics section.

Now he can't get off of it. Can't get up to walk over to the slide. To those kids, loosing themselves from the top: feet first, head first, back, stomach, backwards, forwards. Then climb back up again. He can't get up for all the wrong reasons. Reason. Fear. The fear those kids do not have. That fear that hits when you love yourself too much. So he waits. On the edges. Till they leave. Then he rides over, climbs the slide, looks around for anyone watching. Waits. Then lets go.