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Ten dollars for twenty tickets, says the lady in her red Taste of Colorado teeshirt. A line drawing of a half eaten watermelon slice on the front of her shirt almost matches the cotton candy she has in one hand, which is leaving spider strands of sugar all over the tickets. She is looking over at a bare chested guy about six feet away, who is lovingly handling a thick boa, letting it play over his washboard muscles. She cranes her neck for a better view.

We do not know how much the Ferris wheel costs, and ask her. Ya gotta buy tickets, she says. Ten dollars for twenty tickets. We tell her we know this, but we just want to ride the ferris wheel and want to know how many tickets we need. She shrugs her shoulders and brushes her neck as if she could feel the snake rippling over her shoulders. I can't tell you what you need, she says. You have to figure it out for yourselves.

We decide to buy twenty tickets. If we don't need this many, you say, I will find a kid who wants them. A girl in tight ponytails and white shorts turns at this pronouncement and looks like she is ready to follow us anywhere.

I turn to look at her and she melts away, as though I had only seen her at the edge of my eyes, I hold your hand tightly. I always wanted tickets to rides when I was a kid, I say. And I reach for my money. My idea, I tell you.

You pay anyway. You always do. Its the man's job, you say.

I snuggle into your shoulder.

We wait our turn.