Fences

I used to sit on the fence between our houses, waiting for him to come home from school. The sight of my childish frame perched on the top rail used to be an invitation to play; then later as we grew and became aware of sex, I would dangle my long legs over onto his side as we talked, hoping to achieve the right angle so that he would have wicked thoughts and forget that I was the girl he used to climb trees with.

One summer night, when we were both on break from our separate colleges, he came home and saw me sitting on my front porch, talking to a friend on the phone. He leaned up against the fence, watching, signaling me over after I had hung up. I walked slowly across the lawn, holding my breath, and without a word he pulled me towards him, into a kiss that would have been perfect had I not had a thick piece of lumber pressing into my chest. He climbed over onto my side and, turning me around, pressed me back roughly into the thing that had acted as a natural separation between us for most of our lives.

“Why did that take us so long?” he asked later, our clothes co-mingling on my bedroom floor. I had no answer and instead buried my face into his neck, content. For days, I wore a bruise across the top of my back where he had pushed me into the fence and, years later, he still reminds me of that night when he was finally brave enough to cross over to the other side.