35

San Diego, California. April 2011.

Too many hotel rooms lately have screamed Romance

too many miles flown, the bedsheets instead bear the burden of a dead man

who still thinks room service coffee will save his life.

This year so far might as well have been yesterday or ten years ago or never

you don't really care which. You fumble for the remote in the darkness.

Every time you get on that plane you clutch your book to your chest

knowing it's the only thing that will be real for the next few hours.

Everywhere you go there are reminders that human beings try as hard as they can

to avoid being alone. Every waking moment, constantly.

It's something you're finally beginning to understand, after all this time.

You wonder if it's too late for you and allow a grim inward laugh at your own ridiculous fatalism.

The alarm clock goes off, taunting you with red numbers and confusion

breakfast comes through the door and the uniformed guy with the cart is so cheerful

that you find yourself leaning over the balcony railing with a cup of coffee in your hand

staring at the distant surf and the white beach

and making up his story in your head, his wife, his kids, his house, his hobbies.

You imagine it's pretty great, besides the whole delivering food on a cart bit.

The next day you watch a roller coaster go around three times, frozen in your tracks

debating, biting your lip, squinting

wondering if you should just get on the damn thing

fly solo

just like always but

maybe you'd forget, as you flew around weightless and childlike

and you'd get to just ride a roller coaster for a few seconds

just ride a roller coaster

like a little kid