Jane taunts everyone.
“I never used to be afraid on Ferris wheels.”
“Not
as high up as a plane. Vroooooooom!” She grins and sticks her arms
out to accentuate the “airplane” noises. The car rocks sickeningly.
Jane
on a good day is like the mountains in June. Cool and sunny, and
streams of bright cold optimism breaking out of unexpected origins. Of
course she knew I was afraid of heights, precisely the reason we rode
the wooden coaster, the spiral coaster, the tilt-a-whirl, and now,
this, the “Giant Sky Wheel.” She insists on sitting next to me, and
our combined weight tilts the car.
“In case you get too scared,” she says. “I want to hold your hand.”
It’s
a clear night, but the theme park lights make it starless. Jane is
tearing a pink flier into heart-shaped confetti. She’s got a pen out
too, to send little irritating messages to the other park patrons below
us. They land softly in bushes and cotton candy and slushie cups.
She’s
building a little pile of bigger hearts on the opposite bench. So
funny, she remembers everyone’s name, and she unlooses this nest of
off-season valentines in the direction of a blonde parking attendent.
It’s only remarkable that the hearts say “Sarah, will you marry me?”
because the girl’s nametag says “Sarah” and because her boyfriend runs
the Scrambler.
Jane’s lost interest by the time Sarah starts squealing and punching buttons on her cell-phone, and she turns to ask me,
“Do you ever think you’ll get married, Brian?”
I say, “No- I’ll always be here for you.”
The Past :: The Future