Drop of Doom

We are drinking Black Russians. They taste like martinis, but that is OK. They are black, and we are smoking long, white cigarettes. We are both wearing black T-shirts, with white padding down the front. It is the latest style. I don’t know who I am with. Together we decide to ride the Drop of Doom, the most terrifying ride at the amusement park. As we walk toward it, drinks in hand, matching shirts, long cigarettes, everyone is looking at us. Everyone wants to know us. But the crowd thins out as we get to the ride, and finally it is cold and dark and muddy and there is a couple arguing. The woman is crying like she has been betrayed. I tell the man that we want to ride the Drop of Doom, and he says that it is broken, and that there is only one ride left that is working, and it’s called The Table. He points to a table in front of him. It’s just a table. Suddenly, my companion collapses in tears on the table, finally coming into view. It is Candace, only she is about forty pounds lighter. – It’s lost, she cries. – What is lost? I ask her, stroking her soft hair. Some of it sticks to her red cheeks. – Everything is lost, she cries.