Freakshow On Wheels

You’re attracted to her. It’s OK, she’s an attractive woman. Trust me, you’re not the first guy to be entranced by those grey-green eyes of hers. You’re on your way to meet her. Clark and Lawrence. Just north of that intersection is Windy CIty Wheels. It’s a roller rink. You’re relatively new to the city so you’re probably not familiar with the place. It’s something of a local institution. Used to be an auditorium, then an ice rink. The Stones played there and the Blackhawks used to practice there. Now it’s a shabby, no-frills, rink  where hipsters gather to drink PBR, lace up a battered pair of rental skates and wax nostalgic for a bygone era they were too young to actually experience firsthand. That’s what she has in mind. She also thinks it will be amusing to watch you, a man of your exceptional height, try to stay upright while on eight wheels. She will be amused, and even charmed by your willingness to be a good sport about the whole thing. A month from now you will both consider tonight your “official first date.” You’ll gamely lace up a pair of size 15 skates, stand hesitantly, ankles buckling, and immediately be doubly self-conscious of your height, which is closer now to seven feet with the worn rubber wheels underfoot. Despite your sudden reluctance to proceed, she’ll grab your cold, sweaty hand and drag you out onto the rink. At first you’ll remain along the perimeter, gripping the handrail every few feet, embarrassed once again by your lack of coordination. She is patient, holding your hand tightly, and placing another at the small of your back. You notice the other skaters as they pass by, gawking at you, the towering freakshow. You want to go back to the bench by the concession stand, take off the skates, pull on your boots, and get the hell out of there. But you know she wouldn’t let you. Well, she would if you were adamant about it, but then things might turn ugly and jeopardize any hope you had of kissing her, which is the only reason you’re here in the first place. 

Right? 

Plus, they’re playing pretty decent music. Pixies, Cure, Urge freakin’ Overkill. And what’s this? My Bloody Valentine! And it’s not even Loveless. Nope, the first track off Isn’t Anything. Kevin Shields rapping. Sounds horrible in theory but damn, it kinda works in a retro roller rink. Nice alliteration. Wow, you’re off the rail now. She’s leading you out into the flow of skaters and, look at you!, you’re feeling noticeably more steady. She’s got your hand in hers—gotta remember not to Kung Fu grip it, crush her delicate tarsals—other hand on your hip, guiding you. You glance down at her, she smiles, giggles. Laughing with you not at you; you can actually see the sincerity in her eyes. You avert yours to the smooth wood floor, watch the refracted beads of light glide past you; don’t try to follow any particular one or you’ll get dizzy and—oh shit! You have just fallen on your ass. Square on your cocyx, and jesus, it really hurts. Your hear shouts and laughs from various skaters-by. But she doesn’t laugh. As you struggle to nonchalantly dismiss the intense pain in your rear, fighting like hell to keep that smile from transforming to a cringe, she doesn’t even smirk. She is genuinely concerned. She kneels down at your side, all grace and beauty, disco ball lights dancing across her angelic face. Your roller queen in jeggings. Were it not for the fact that you very well may have fractured your tailbone, you might consider kissing her right now. She puts a hand on your shoulder and the other on your thigh and asks if you’re OK about a million times, and you really want to kiss her. Not out of lust now but out of overwhelming gratitude for her kindness, for the dignified manner in which she’s handling the situation. You will recall this moment above all others when you eventually give in to your compulsion to tell her that you love her, and it will stay with you, long after your time together comes to an end.