It's the F line on Saturday night. When the train pulls in, it's wearing "Coney Island" across its forehead and I think, well, I could. I could take that long slow ride, find the tiny kiosk lit against the night, buy my ticket, get into the front car, and scream my way into the first Cyclone ride of the season. But it is a damp cold night, I am already chilled, hunkered down into a cowboy squat on the open-air platform. I let gravity hold me and the train pulls away.

He is pale, skinny, begging for attention. She is wide, awkward, giggling encouragement. He is beat boxing on the platform, she thinks it is a peacock's play for her affection. He is about to put his foot into the bear trap of expectation. She is about to put her heart into the undertow of disinterest. I'd like to tell them, but I look away.

Here comes my train.