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The ride slows, letting people off. The teenagers beg for another ride, refusing to move. Unfazed, the attendant pulls one of the girls out of the car and the rest of the girls follow. We can hear their laughter as they get out, watch them enter another line, another life.

The blue car is now on the ground. As if in a black and white silent movie, the scrawny gentleman shows his wizened lady off, bowing first and offering his hand. She takes it, raises it in a bygone waltz and climbs out. Their expressions are too far away for us to see, and they are poor silent actors, for they do not dip and kiss. Rather, they must be talking of commonplaces, of nothing in particular.

No one else watches them. They hug slightly, comfortably. Walk off.

We have been friends for a long time now, but nowhere near as long as those two have. This is obvious.

Suddenly, I no longer want the asphalt to become a place of black oblivion. I want it to be a long road under us, supporting us.

I want to be friends with it, too.