It was Sunday night and we didn’t have to work in the morning.

We took mushrooms. We didn’t plan it, but we did it anyway.

We danced in the living room. We jumped rope, the rope caught on the plush beige carpet of the tiny home near the ocean.

We were waiting for Jack to come back from the store with more tequila.

We were two couples not wanting to lose our high.

Someone had an idea, and we mounted the vintage beach cruisers in the garage. I took the baby blue one with the basket in front.

We rolled down the street in a line, weaving in and out of one another like it was choreographed. We sang DO a deer, a female deer. We pretended we were where the hills are alive.

We found a park and climbed onto the swings. We leaned back and kicked our legs. We leaned forward and tucked them in. The ocean we couldn’t see cooled our faces.

We were interrupted.

An unnaturally large man approached. Bald and middle-aged.

We noticed how tightly his threadbare muscle tee fit. On the front, a cracked school emblem of a school we knew he didn’t attend. We noticed his jean shorts, dirty, frayed, and quad muscles bulging out the sides.

We said hello.

He grunted and stood in front of us and counted.

1, 2, 3, 4…

We looked at one another. We decided to give up our swings. We didn’t know if his playground rules were to count to 10, 20, or 100. We were afraid to get it wrong.

We girls said, “let’s go back.” The men replied, “wait, let’s watch.”

We sat on the edge of the merry-go-round keeping our feet close to the ground.

We watched and listened to his grunts as he moved through the dark night.

Forward. Mmmph. Back. Mmmmph. Repeat.

We mounted our bikes again. We rode quickly through the early morning fog that muted the street gray.

Scattered yellow light moved through the gray watery mesh.

Six red cars sat in a line in front of the house.