Here.

"I don't want to drive," I said. So I sat myself in the passenger seat, squashed beside him in the bumper car. Our friends sat around us, waiting to be released, our excitement palpable. I squirmed eagerly in my seat.
It was dusk; the light was fading fast.
How strange we looked, dressed to the nines in our suits and dresses and heels and shiny shoes and yet we grinned like children as we careened around and around in circles. We collided into friends and strangers and our heads snapped back as we laughed.
I was screaming with laughter; with mirth or joy or exhilaration or whatever you want to call it: this moment was freedom, pure and sweet.


The pink and blue and yellow lights blurred around us as our knees bumped together. We screeched with laughter, He and I. Carefree and perfect.


Over a year later, a different He and I drank beers in a sprawling backyard lit only by headlights. "I'll go first," I said. I ran then, pumping my legs furiously before throwing myself on the wet, soapy tarp. It was cold and the water sprayed into my contacts but it took me down, down, delightfully fast. I spilled out onto the grass and the blades cut into my skin but I didn't care. He slid behind me, much faster and more graceful. His muscles rippled under his skin when he stood, grinning and covered in grass.
We stood there like childish fools, drenched in soap and green weeds. When I grabbed his hand he let me thread my fingers through his and we ran back up the slippery blue tarp, skating on the beads of water and dodging the other slip-n-sliders. His hands were big and dark and mine were small and pale and yet I remember we laughed alike as we skidded together in the black and blue summer night.

This may sound strange, but I used to think that when I died, I could ask God to show me the greatest moments of my life over again. I always wondered what those would be, but I've decided that perhaps these would be the moments I wish I could have just one more time.