Old playgrounds weren’t like this, Mary thought as she sat back on a wooden bench, gently bouncing her feet on the squishy surface. Back then, concrete was king.

And when you fell, you got hurt.

Not now. Those tiny pieces of recycled tires molded together and applied on the ground provide a cushiony net of sorts for children sampling the newfangled equipment.

And that itself seemed more kid-friendly than the imposing structures Mary remembered.

This was Mary’s play time. Her husband was at work and her errands were, for the most part, done.

She looked past the gate, past the tall oak trees that surrounded the playground.

Her friend was a few minutes late – not unusual. But break time would be coming soon, Mary knew. She looked up at the majestic church across the avenue. It towered over the trees, casting a shadow over part of the playground.

Simple joy surrounded Mary.

Two young girls raced effortlessly up a wooden ramp, up the steps of a small ladder and down a twisting green slide.

“Wee, hee, hee,’’ a mother cried out from nearby as the girls landed on their feet and raced to repeat the adventure.

Just then, Mary spotted a few pigeons take to the air as someone opened the entrance gate.

Joe had arrived.

Tall, with curly blond hair and well-tanned, he carried two brown paper bags and sported a smile as he made his way to Mary.

“Hope you like tuna fish,’’ he said, taking a seat to Mary’s left and handing her one of the bags.

“Great,’’ she replied, lifting the sunglasses from her eyes and resting them on her straight brown hair.

Both Joe and Mary wore – coincidentally – jeans and a white T-shirt. Joe’s pants were covered with drips of paint – cameo white, to be exact. They betrayed his occupation, and how he and Mary had met.

A friend of a friend had recommended him when she and James, her surgeon husband, were thinking of redoing their kitchen. James being too busy, Mary had ended up overseeing all the remodeling – the new tile and cabinets, the painting, the countertop. Joe had offered sound advice and had patiently seen to every detail. Somewhere along the line –- between the installation of the handsome glass doors on the cabinets and the smooth black granite countertop near the sink –- the creative vision that Joe and Mary shared had progressed to something more.

They were now on their fourth visit to the park together. Joe had moved on to other jobs in the area – but you have to take a lunch break.

“Look at that kid go,’’ Joe said, slipping his arm along the back of the bench behind Mary.

With his mother holding one of his hands, the boy in question had just run across a little suspended bridge of sorts that moved as you walked across it.

“We didn’t have those when I was a kid,’’ Mary said.

“I was more into the jungle gym,’’ Joe said.

“Like that?’’ Mary asked, pointing to a distinctive red and green structure with small metal bars placed close to each other.

“It was all metal. No fancy paint. Instead of going from spoke to spoke, we’d just try to shimmy along the side poles as fast as we could go. We were so small we couldn’t even get our fingers around the pole. We moved fast though.’’

“Play any other games?’’

“The dumbest, and the most fun, too, was the one where we’d take a picnic bench – like the one over there – and place it next to the jungle gym. Then we’d take turns standing on the seat of the bench and jumping toward the thing, trying to grab onto the thick side pole with both hands. We’d keep moving the bench back to see how far we could jump and still manage to grab onto the pole.’’

“Sounds really safe,’’ Mary said, an easy smile coming over her face.

“I went through childhood with scraped knees. And loved it, by the way.’’

“Well, I stuck mostly with the slide. But it wasn’t like that one – all curvy and bright green and plastic. It was all metal, and it went straight down.’’

Mary’s eyes darted around the playground: to the nannies and mommies resting on shaded benches; to a little boy kicking a mini soccer ball; to the pigeons on the fringes that mechanically bobbed their heads up and down, devouring bread crumbs that some old visitor had been kind enough to have dropped for them.

Joe and Mary dug into their neatly prepared tuna fish sandwiches.

“Fernando, the guy at the deli, knows what he’s doing,’’ Joe said. “I don’t even have to order anymore. He knows what I want – and he’s doing it double now.’’

Mary blushed a little. “The wheat bread’s nice, too.’’

Over by a water fountain, a handful of children took turns putting their hands over the metal faucet, seeing who could get the water to squirt the farthest. They did everything but drink.

Mary pulled out a Poland Spring bottle from her bag. She closed her eyes as she took that refreshing first sip.

Then there was the apple.

“No extra cost,’’ Joe said. “Comes with the lunch special.’’

They bit into their juicy fruit, chatted aimlessly and tossed the remnants of their meal in a nearby trash can.

“Hey,’’ Joe told Mary. “Come over here.’’

With his right arm around her shoulder, he led her to the corner of the playground with the tire swings.

“I haven’t been on one of these in years,’’ Mary exclaimed. “You?’’

“It’s been a while.’’

Mary eased herself back onto one of the tires, between two of the three chains that kept it suspended. Joe stood nearby and helped spin the tire, sending Mary into an effortless twirl.

The kids, the trees and the perfect blue sky became a swirling blur to an increasingly dizzy Mary. But she was not scared. She could see the dark, squishy surface below – there to cushion the impact of any misstep or fall.

In this exuberant respite, and with Joe steadily guiding the tire, a thought came to Mary: It may be time to remodel the master bedroom.

___________________________________________

Peter Khoury is an editor at The New York Times. His fiction has appeared in The Baltimore Review, Clapboard House, Driftwood, and The Hudson Valley Literary Magazine.

Cara Black Sets Her Mysteries in Paris

The world is shrinking and so are decent mysteries. Today’s culture is saturated with information, leaving little room for new mysteries to develop. Crimes are solved quickly, algorithms are deduced by computers, the universe is at our fingertips. The same is true for literature. Authors have fewer mysteries to write about because more mysteries have been solved. But certain mysteries remain. An expertly drafted thriller keeps us turning its pages, a feat championed by the Paris-centric writer Cara Black. Things still go missing. Where they go is a mystery. This was the case in Ireland recently, when a poet visiting a horse barn lost his manuscript. Foreign languages are mysterious, inasmuch as they can’t be understood. Every translator worth his salt knows this. Go to Words Without Borders for another theory. Maine used to be a mysterious place, but now you can see where every writer in the state lives via the Portland Press Herald. Finally — in what unquestionably is the granddad of lasting mysteries — we have people. You, us, that guy on the bus and the lady on the street. Our minds and feelings and instincts, our character and decisions and morality. It’s enough to make you think. The Sun Magazine discusses human mystery with an esteemed man of consciousness and New Scientist ponders the brain’s propensity to inhabit chaos. See if you can figure that out. — Kevin Murphy

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