It all started in a hotel somewhere other than here; I know this because all the doors were open. And so I walked by each one hoping to see something similar to that which has happened in my room, or something different even, really just hoping to see something....
     But the rooms were empty and so I returned to mine, where my girl and I laid down upon the bathroom mirror. She said we should have sex before her thing starts.
     And so we boarded, the old roller-coaster like a dinosaur on display: two tracks, one forward, ours of course going backwards, no chance of the two ever connecting, and I recalled the hills as they were in my youth, they seemed so much smaller now. And the rules, they too were no longer the same—we were losing this race—while when I was young the rules were such that everyone was going to win. Still, I did not mind so much, night had come and the park lights had been turned on and the cotton candy air seemed the same; indeed, the music remained romantic, whereas now I was no longer alone....
     Of course the ride had always been too brief, but nonetheless I felt satisfied as we pulled back into the station—slow, slowing—the familiar white of the ceiling calming me, my heart, the operator yelling “No more rides tonight!” The next in line, all children, then marched in protest onto the tracks, single-file. There was nothing violent about it, though; they did not throw themselves against the slowing coaster, they merely walked, almost fading into it....The children merely spilt their blood on themselves, and the passengers seemed to appreciate this. So much so, in fact, they pretended not to notice what had happened.
     My girl and I were no different.

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     The rides, fossils now, had all been shut down. But we sat in one anyway, the one shaped like a wheel on its side, the one with a deck of cards as its decor. Just like that, we had a sun-faded clover on our side....
     And it must have had some luck to it, because my girl, without really attempting to, started the ride: together we first slowly slid sideways, then up to a slight angle, then around and around and back down—picking up speed now—and then ‘round and up and ‘round, the machine moaning in a protest all its own, until one moment we were without gravity, suspended high, and the next we feared being buried beneath concrete.
     Jokingly, I reached to put our seatbelt on. But instead she slid it up my arm and wrapped it tight around my bicep. “You have to relax,” she said, so I did; and my veins surfaced then as if they were thinking of something important, and my arm reminded me of a road map that wasn’t built to scale. I didn’t want to watch, but did despite myself, and soon after I forgot all about the rides of my youth, for now I realized they could not compete with the present in either thrills or length thereof.
     But soon, sooner even, the ride did indeed slow; it no longer went as high or as low, and it only went fast instead of faster....My girl, she tried to do some of the same things she did before, and although not without some success, it just wasn’t the same: I had remembered we were not alone, that we were somewhere we were not supposed to be, that we were doing things we weren’t allowed to do, and that the price tagged on such things invariably outweighed the pleasure involved.
     And as if on cue, here he comes, nodding....
     Not in a hurry, is he? A strange smile on his face, as if stroking his baton afforded him some sexual satisfaction. He is old as well, too old. And unshaven. A cop, but not merely a cop, he doubles as a dealer. Smirks, but only because he knows it’s safe, and says, “One ace does not a full hand make.” Then—eyeing the girl all the while—he slides the belt that still hangs loose around my arm down to my wrist, fastening me to the ride. And finding his flashlight, he shines it first in her eyes.
     “Where should I look?” she asks.
     His answer: “Away.”
     And she does as he says because there’s no longer a choice, perhaps there never was, and I too try to look away as the light comes towards me. But my vision has never been fully mine and thus it betrays me—starved for light it cannot differentiate between that which is true, and that which is false light—and thus it sees none, creating in me blackout.
     It was then, and only then, that I was reminded of how the children walked the tracks without complaint. Because now it was my turn.