The Rusty Swing by Mike Miller
One of the first things the therapist says is, “I don’t know how you do it. It seems like you have nothing in common.”
It makes us laugh. I realize soon that that’s maybe the best thing he’ll say. When I look into my-then-girlfriend Jenny’s eyes, I know we know that there are definitely a couple things we share. That was our secret.
He starts asking all these questions though. Questions and questions, all questioning everything we ever did like some trial and I didn’t even know the crime. I had always given her everything, and thought that any relationship had its rough spots.
He asks about the time she put the knife on me, and I explain about how she thought I was an intruder. Besides, it was a birthday present from me. There’s always friction in human chemistry.
That worked for the police, but then Jenny tells this total stranger the truth. About how I wanted to take the TV with me, and suddenly I’m telling him about how much she loved that damn thing.
When I start to defend myself, she attacks harder, and the therapist listens to us go at it. His face is straight, but I can tell he loves it.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
My mouth keeps going at her, but I think about how we made it through those knife and TV incidents, minor skirmishes in love’s war. We survived all those, but now every heartache and smashed vase were all resurrected with a vengeance.
When I look into Jenny’s eyes, I see now what I always saw then: bright hazel beauty and near murderous rage. Maybe she can’t control her temper, but I’m not going to let things get out of control.
I can’t handle stress.
Somebody has to exert control.
Suddenly, the therapist jumps in on her side. It’s as if he saw peace and knew it could not be.
He starts opening up all new channels of conflict and confusion. He talks about other things about us, strange secrets or tangents that are unrelated to the issue at hand. The referee has joined with the opposing team, changing the rules as he goes.
The tension is tempting to engage, but that was the old me. I never needed therapy before and learned to deal with things myself. I know Jenny knows how to do that too, but maybe she’s afraid.
He helps her to want his help. When they start talking about my other girlfriends, I have to pity them.
They thrive on turmoil. I live on stability.
A solid base of patience and acceptance.
I feel like a priest.
I forgive him. Her name is on the check.
Time runs out, and he jokingly asks Jenny to at least ditch the switchblade.
She says she’ll consider it, but tells him it was a family heirloom.
Two points for me.
Outside I complain about therapy, and she starts laughing so hard she falls down on the ground. I can see therapy is already vastly improving her emotional stability as advertised. She rolls over and keeps going for 20, maybe 30 seconds. Her body stops moving and finally the shaking dies down.
She’s says she can’t believe that I just called our session together “the rapy.” And I tell her I didn’t say that. I know how you pronounce therapy. I don’t have an accent.
I tell her that the “the-rapist” was a quack and she was nuts. The insults don’t faze her. She’s still in a good mood, all the way until its next mention.
When she next reminds me of “the rapy,” she reminds me about our upcoming seven-month anniversary. She is upset.
Hooray. At least something gets a rise out of this cold granite.
She doesn’t even believe that I could remember the big day on my own. Of course she is right.
But I’m madder about the fact that she refers to that intellectual thug that mind-raped us. That she thinks that now he will help us really get our act together.
I’m not going to need his crackerjack help.
She starts talking about something fantastic, truly memorable.
I already have the idea. It comes to me instantly.
I tell her about the swing. Off in the remote forest, up a rigorous hike, with a clear view of the bay. At night it’s amazing. I used to go there to help me think. Just relaxing and living free. I don’t tell her about the other girls I’ve taken up there.
She said it sounded like a great idea.
She wasn’t completely sold, but she held a hope that it would be fun.
She hated nature, but she wanted to give it a shot. That’s the spirit.
To be honest, most other girls didn’t enjoy the experience. But then I realized that I honestly wished she would. If I had a good time, than my supposed soul mate should too.
We smile and hold hands. She kisses my cheek, and I kiss her lips.
Her eyes are whole with happiness.
I’m not half bad too, considering that visit with the “psycho-logist.”
As we hike up the trail, I look back at her looking up at me.
I think back to last night’s fight. Her bold dreams of something large and grandiose. Dinner and dancing, a night on the town. Getting dressed up like some married couple winning an Academy Award.
But Jenny’s eyes still lit up like diamond engagement rings as she huffed up that hill.
It was easy for me, but she was just so small. Her lack of speed actually helps us catch a vivid red and purple sunset. Starting pink and lavender, then it turns magenta and violet.
When I talk about the magnificent view, she talks about how scared she is to be out after dark. If it’s so dangerous, then she should hurry up.
Through the thin hillside brush we trek, and eventually enter the forest at nightfall. It’s not far, but the thick foliage slows us down.
The trees hide the night sky. It grows dark.
It’s been awhile since I’ve visited the swing, and her hesitant stepping is another to thing to wait for. I guide her through as she laments how soggy her shorts are. Her legs are getting gross and wet, and she can’t see.
I tell her it’s easy to see in the dark, once you adjust and become one with the shadows. She doesn’t get it. Her hands remain clinging to my back the whole way.
I can see the swing in a clearing, in the moonlight. Its rusty chains don’t reflect any light, only allowing a dim navy sky through its links. The holes in the chain dance in the wind, rippling flashes up and down the line. It dangles down from a massive oak tree.
When we finally get to it, she gasps. She says it looks like it will break and it also swings out over a large gorge. I say it’s safe, and it’s only a tiny gulley. She doesn’t trust me so I tell her I’ll go first.
I look down at the jagged cliff before the swing. If my weight breaks it, then she’ll be rid of me forever.
She leans over and we kiss for awhile.
She’s finally having a blast.
She becomes that much deeper for me.
I fathom us together in the future as I mount the swing. The aged wood of the seat creaks, and the mighty bough that suspends it bows down. I bounce lightly in it to demonstrate its strength. She winces at the jangling, cracking noises it makes, but I order her to push me.
With one mighty heave, she sends me floating forward. I kick my legs out and swing them back for momentum. When I swing them back, I kick her in the legs. With the added momentum of the pendulum, my body sends her body crumpling backwards into the dirt and grass.
She lands hard on the ground. I want to laugh. You can’t stand in the path of a swing, you dolt.
I jump from the swing and check on her.
She’s a tough girl and hops up, hiding her injury.
After safely distancing herself to the side, I send myself flying.
I sail over the gorge into the sky. I swing back into the highest branches of the tree. I can see the sparkling city lights off in the distance. I can see deep into the dark abyss beneath.
She talks to me, but I don’t want to hear her. I want to live on the swing.
The tree winces under the stress like a pinky finger tied to a brick. But it won’t break. I’ve been here before and survived.
I am always happy here. I think I am happy with her, but maybe I’m just happy about her. I wonder what the rapist would say.
With her back below watching, I grin at her fear: the bottomless darkness. My feet kick down at it in defiance.
I gaze down at the other girls I’ve pushed down there. Their bodies are dim ghosts in the chasm, but their dead eyes glisten up at me. I wonder if Jenny should join them.
I finally hear her yelling about the swing’s safety. This swing will not stop me from getting back to her.
When the rush fades, I slow down, sliding to a stop. I dismount the faithful old swing and return to her.
She asks if I loved it. I say I do.
She asks if I love her. I kiss her.
She still asks for an answer, and I say actions speak louder than words. I load her onto the swing for her turn. Then I whisper that I love her.
Placing my hands upon those sturdy hips, I push. I send her out into the night.
I gradually build speed up, her altitude slowly growing. She shifts in her seat, as she soars over the gorge. I remain to the side, stepping in to push harder, farther.
Her purse begins slapping against her back uncomfortably. She says she should take it off, and I agree. When she loosens her hand from the chain, she wobbles wildly. She starts to fall.
She swiftly grips the hand back onto the rusty chain. She stabilizes herself, and I give her another strong push. Jenny was definitely a tough gal.
After a couple more gentle shoves, she is now fully over the edge. Now is the time to ask her why. I ask her why she loves me.
She starts giggling, but then straightens out.
She says there’s lots of things she doesn’t like about me. After the therapy. She’s less angry with those flaws though, and loves the other things about me more.
She loves how crazy and unpredictable I am.
Her obnoxious stupidity. It disgusts me. After all the other things I gave her, she picks the traits that are going to kill her.
I start to yell at her. I call her names. I tell her what I am going to do.
She swings back.
I scream that I will push her over the edge, down into the black hole.
She swings forward.
Straight to hell with those other girls.
She swings back.
She remains strangely calm. Loosening one arm she fishes into her bag. It is the perfect time for the final push towards oblivion.
She swings forward and slams the birthday switchblade into my gut, knocking me over. I fall down on the ground, my stomach bleeding into my hands. The collision starts spinning her wildly to the side. Still swinging forward.
I see her fall from the swing. Her silhouette disappears down into the chasm. She doesn’t scream.
It swings back empty.
The aged wood seat hits me on the head, and the dark night gets darker.
My eyes will not adjust anymore.
There is a loud, growing buzz in my ears. It is like a hundred girlfriends groaning at me.
My body grows cold.
I can’t move.
I hope she gets what she deserves.
One of the first things the therapist says is, “I don’t know how you do it. It seems like you have nothing in common.”
It makes us laugh. I realize soon that that’s maybe the best thing he’ll say. When I look into my-then-girlfriend Jenny’s eyes, I know we know that there are definitely a couple things we share. That was our secret.
He starts asking all these questions though. Questions and questions, all questioning everything we ever did like some trial and I didn’t even know the crime. I had always given her everything, and thought that any relationship had its rough spots.
He asks about the time she put the knife on me, and I explain about how she thought I was an intruder. Besides, it was a birthday present from me. There’s always friction in human chemistry.
That worked for the police, but then Jenny tells this total stranger the truth. About how I wanted to take the TV with me, and suddenly I’m telling him about how much she loved that damn thing.
When I start to defend myself, she attacks harder, and the therapist listens to us go at it. His face is straight, but I can tell he loves it.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
My mouth keeps going at her, but I think about how we made it through those knife and TV incidents, minor skirmishes in love’s war. We survived all those, but now every heartache and smashed vase were all resurrected with a vengeance.
When I look into Jenny’s eyes, I see now what I always saw then: bright hazel beauty and near murderous rage. Maybe she can’t control her temper, but I’m not going to let things get out of control.
I can’t handle stress.
Somebody has to exert control.
Suddenly, the therapist jumps in on her side. It’s as if he saw peace and knew it could not be.
He starts opening up all new channels of conflict and confusion. He talks about other things about us, strange secrets or tangents that are unrelated to the issue at hand. The referee has joined with the opposing team, changing the rules as he goes.
The tension is tempting to engage, but that was the old me. I never needed therapy before and learned to deal with things myself. I know Jenny knows how to do that too, but maybe she’s afraid.
He helps her to want his help. When they start talking about my other girlfriends, I have to pity them.
They thrive on turmoil. I live on stability.
A solid base of patience and acceptance.
I feel like a priest.
I forgive him. Her name is on the check.
Time runs out, and he jokingly asks Jenny to at least ditch the switchblade.
She says she’ll consider it, but tells him it was a family heirloom.
Two points for me.
Outside I complain about therapy, and she starts laughing so hard she falls down on the ground. I can see therapy is already vastly improving her emotional stability as advertised. She rolls over and keeps going for 20, maybe 30 seconds. Her body stops moving and finally the shaking dies down.
She’s says she can’t believe that I just called our session together “the rapy.” And I tell her I didn’t say that. I know how you pronounce therapy. I don’t have an accent.
I tell her that the “the-rapist” was a quack and she was nuts. The insults don’t faze her. She’s still in a good mood, all the way until its next mention.
When she next reminds me of “the rapy,” she reminds me about our upcoming seven-month anniversary. She is upset.
Hooray. At least something gets a rise out of this cold granite.
She doesn’t even believe that I could remember the big day on my own. Of course she is right.
But I’m madder about the fact that she refers to that intellectual thug that mind-raped us. That she thinks that now he will help us really get our act together.
I’m not going to need his crackerjack help.
She starts talking about something fantastic, truly memorable.
I already have the idea. It comes to me instantly.
I tell her about the swing. Off in the remote forest, up a rigorous hike, with a clear view of the bay. At night it’s amazing. I used to go there to help me think. Just relaxing and living free. I don’t tell her about the other girls I’ve taken up there.
She said it sounded like a great idea.
She wasn’t completely sold, but she held a hope that it would be fun.
She hated nature, but she wanted to give it a shot. That’s the spirit.
To be honest, most other girls didn’t enjoy the experience. But then I realized that I honestly wished she would. If I had a good time, than my supposed soul mate should too.
We smile and hold hands. She kisses my cheek, and I kiss her lips.
Her eyes are whole with happiness.
I’m not half bad too, considering that visit with the “psycho-logist.”
As we hike up the trail, I look back at her looking up at me.
I think back to last night’s fight. Her bold dreams of something large and grandiose. Dinner and dancing, a night on the town. Getting dressed up like some married couple winning an Academy Award.
But Jenny’s eyes still lit up like diamond engagement rings as she huffed up that hill.
It was easy for me, but she was just so small. Her lack of speed actually helps us catch a vivid red and purple sunset. Starting pink and lavender, then it turns magenta and violet.
When I talk about the magnificent view, she talks about how scared she is to be out after dark. If it’s so dangerous, then she should hurry up.
Through the thin hillside brush we trek, and eventually enter the forest at nightfall. It’s not far, but the thick foliage slows us down.
The trees hide the night sky. It grows dark.
It’s been awhile since I’ve visited the swing, and her hesitant stepping is another to thing to wait for. I guide her through as she laments how soggy her shorts are. Her legs are getting gross and wet, and she can’t see.
I tell her it’s easy to see in the dark, once you adjust and become one with the shadows. She doesn’t get it. Her hands remain clinging to my back the whole way.
I can see the swing in a clearing, in the moonlight. Its rusty chains don’t reflect any light, only allowing a dim navy sky through its links. The holes in the chain dance in the wind, rippling flashes up and down the line. It dangles down from a massive oak tree.
When we finally get to it, she gasps. She says it looks like it will break and it also swings out over a large gorge. I say it’s safe, and it’s only a tiny gulley. She doesn’t trust me so I tell her I’ll go first.
I look down at the jagged cliff before the swing. If my weight breaks it, then she’ll be rid of me forever.
She leans over and we kiss for awhile.
She’s finally having a blast.
She becomes that much deeper for me.
I fathom us together in the future as I mount the swing. The aged wood of the seat creaks, and the mighty bough that suspends it bows down. I bounce lightly in it to demonstrate its strength. She winces at the jangling, cracking noises it makes, but I order her to push me.
With one mighty heave, she sends me floating forward. I kick my legs out and swing them back for momentum. When I swing them back, I kick her in the legs. With the added momentum of the pendulum, my body sends her body crumpling backwards into the dirt and grass.
She lands hard on the ground. I want to laugh. You can’t stand in the path of a swing, you dolt.
I jump from the swing and check on her.
She’s a tough girl and hops up, hiding her injury.
After safely distancing herself to the side, I send myself flying.
I sail over the gorge into the sky. I swing back into the highest branches of the tree. I can see the sparkling city lights off in the distance. I can see deep into the dark abyss beneath.
She talks to me, but I don’t want to hear her. I want to live on the swing.
The tree winces under the stress like a pinky finger tied to a brick. But it won’t break. I’ve been here before and survived.
I am always happy here. I think I am happy with her, but maybe I’m just happy about her. I wonder what the rapist would say.
With her back below watching, I grin at her fear: the bottomless darkness. My feet kick down at it in defiance.
I gaze down at the other girls I’ve pushed down there. Their bodies are dim ghosts in the chasm, but their dead eyes glisten up at me. I wonder if Jenny should join them.
I finally hear her yelling about the swing’s safety. This swing will not stop me from getting back to her.
When the rush fades, I slow down, sliding to a stop. I dismount the faithful old swing and return to her.
She asks if I loved it. I say I do.
She asks if I love her. I kiss her.
She still asks for an answer, and I say actions speak louder than words. I load her onto the swing for her turn. Then I whisper that I love her.
Placing my hands upon those sturdy hips, I push. I send her out into the night.
I gradually build speed up, her altitude slowly growing. She shifts in her seat, as she soars over the gorge. I remain to the side, stepping in to push harder, farther.
Her purse begins slapping against her back uncomfortably. She says she should take it off, and I agree. When she loosens her hand from the chain, she wobbles wildly. She starts to fall.
She swiftly grips the hand back onto the rusty chain. She stabilizes herself, and I give her another strong push. Jenny was definitely a tough gal.
After a couple more gentle shoves, she is now fully over the edge. Now is the time to ask her why. I ask her why she loves me.
She starts giggling, but then straightens out.
She says there’s lots of things she doesn’t like about me. After the therapy. She’s less angry with those flaws though, and loves the other things about me more.
She loves how crazy and unpredictable I am.
Her obnoxious stupidity. It disgusts me. After all the other things I gave her, she picks the traits that are going to kill her.
I start to yell at her. I call her names. I tell her what I am going to do.
She swings back.
I scream that I will push her over the edge, down into the black hole.
She swings forward.
Straight to hell with those other girls.
She swings back.
She remains strangely calm. Loosening one arm she fishes into her bag. It is the perfect time for the final push towards oblivion.
She swings forward and slams the birthday switchblade into my gut, knocking me over. I fall down on the ground, my stomach bleeding into my hands. The collision starts spinning her wildly to the side. Still swinging forward.
I see her fall from the swing. Her silhouette disappears down into the chasm. She doesn’t scream.
It swings back empty.
The aged wood seat hits me on the head, and the dark night gets darker.
My eyes will not adjust anymore.
There is a loud, growing buzz in my ears. It is like a hundred girlfriends groaning at me.
My body grows cold.
I can’t move.
I hope she gets what she deserves.
