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The metal bands click in place, locking us in the car. Little patches of worn silver peep out from their greasy bed on the catch. I stare at them. I want to ask you if you think that the grease holds the silver or if the silver holds the grease. Suddenly the question of this band's existence seems terribly important.

I want to look at the crowds, the screaming teenagers on the fast octopus ride, black, sleek, spinning almost out of control. My neck cranes out to peer at them, but I cannot make out their faces.

I want to know they exist, that their ride will stop before they slide into the nothingness.

I tell you this. I start to say something, ask if you think they are having fun.

Maybe they don't want the ride to end, you tell me.

I nod. Hold onto the edge of your denim cut offs, fingering the fraying cotton. Maybe, like me, they want to hold onto this forever.