"Wouldn't sit on that if I were you."
"And thank fuck every day that you're not."
"Fine. If it breaks under your arse, don't come crying."
"Looks alright to me. Wanna test it?"
"Cheers, I'll pass."
"C'mon, you're such a little pu—BOLLOCKS!"
"Told you."
"Fucking shrubs clawed up my arms…"
"Looks comfy enough down there."
"Help me up, will you?!"
"Fuck, you're heavy. And you spilled the beer."
An icy gust breathes over the garden. The swing hangs crooked on one rope, like a drunken sailor over a ship's rail.
"What's the point of a bloody garden swing if you can't even use it?"
"You could, like… fifteen years ago."
"And now it's just hanging around?"
"Pretty much."
"Why not fix it?"
"Who? My mum won't even look at that thing."
"How about you?"
"Two left hands, if you haven't noticed."
The echo of laughter from the pub down the street carries on the wind.
"Why's she avoiding it?"
"Hm?"
"Your mum. The swing."
"Don't know. Think it reminds her of things."
"…"
"Stop pulling that face."
"What face?"
"You know what face."
"It's just… sad, innit?"
"It's only a swing. Move. My balls are freezing."
"And we just leave it there?"
"I'll deal with it. Later."
"…"
"What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking."
"Dangerous territory for you."
"Fuck off. Fifteen years, mate."
"Yeah…"
"…You ever visit him?"
"Nah. No need."
"You sure?"
"What the fuck—are you a therapist now?"
"Cool off. I was just asking."
"Well don't."
Fresh lagers pop open.
"We could burn it."
"You're insane."
"Like those Viking boats. Big flames."
"No."
"Why not?"
"…Because it's my dad’s."
"…"
"…"
"We could dig a hole."
"Ground's frozen."
"True."
One gaze rises to the darkening sky.
"I know what we'll do. Toni's got tie-down cords in his shed."
"And?"
"We fix it. Seat, ropes. Put it back up proper."
"…"
"You coming or what?"
"Fuck it. Why not."
