The Tilt-A-Whirl operator stared down at her Doc Martens, the only thing she wore that actually belonged to her. The Docs were colored with paint splatters, and their laces had been chewed by a dog. The operator’s name was Ali, and she hated her job. Also, her head hurt.
An eager group of ten-year-old boys tugged at the faux velvet rope in front of Ali, elbowing each other. One of them had a blonde bowl cut, wire frame glasses, and way too much acne for a kid his age. Tragic. “Can we please get on already?” he said, “we’ve been waiting for, like, ever.”
“Not yet,” Ali said with a practiced customer-service smile, “all attendees must be off the machinery before I can move the rope.”
The ten-year-olds groaned, and Ali rubbed her messily-lined eyes. Her head still hurt. Navy Pier’s blueish light beat down on her from its thirty-foot, warehouse-like ceiling. Ali clenched and unclenched her left fist, like she always did when she was anxious. When everyone was off the Tilt-A-Whirl, she moved the rope, and the boys charged.
             “You better not yack again, Peter,” one of the boys said, as he pushed his way onto the ride. Their dirty Nikes skidded against the metallic floor.
“Yeah, that was like, so disgusting,” another said. They all laughed, and the bowl-cut boy ignored them. Ali did, too. She didn’t have the time or energy to listen to some kid get bullied. After completing a seatbelt check, Ali half-heartedly rambled through some safety instructions. Then, she brought the ride to life with her yellow lever.
Ali watched Peter, his fake friends, and their excited screams—along with the sickening scent of elephant ears, the repetitive Christmas songs, and the gigantic ornaments above—fade into a red and white blur. The Tilt-A-Whirl’s whirring sound made her smile. It was simple and loud and mechanical, like the white noise machine outside her childhood therapist’s office. Maybe that’s why her head hurt less now and why she could be alone with her thoughts for the rest of the ride: a whole three minutes and forty seconds.
So, for three minutes and forty seconds, Ali thought about Maya, even though she didn’t want to. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she said last night; those words still rang in her ears and cut into her skin. And, as if this wasn’t enough for Ali to deal with, she was still carrying the letter from Maya in the breast pocket of her candy-cane-striped vest. It was on the kitchen counter this morning; she found it when she left for work. She hadn’t opened it yet, but she couldn’t wait any longer.
Ali removed the letter from her pocket, ignoring the fact that Peter was probably puking up massive amounts of cotton candy on the Tilt-A-Whirl behind her. Her bitten, black nails dug into the envelope and tore away at its fragile seams. Paper scraps drifted towards the ground like snowflakes. She frantically read Maya’s scribbly blue cursive, tracing her finger under every word to make sure that she didn’t miss anything, and, just as she finished, the ride creaked to a halt. Three minutes and forty seconds had passed. The boys were laughing. It smelled like vomit. I love you, but we just can’t do this anymore. I’m going back to SF. I’m sorry.Ali’s cheeks were wet with tears. Her head hurt again.
            “What’s wrong with you?” a white woman with a soccer-mom haircut said, grabbing Ali’s arm. Her acrylic talons dug into Ali’s skin, causing her to drop the letter. “My son’s sick! Get him off the ride!” Ali mumbled an apology but picked up the letter first. She stuffed it back into her pocket then moved the rope and began unbuckling seat belts. Ali nodded as Peter’s mom followed her around, lecturing her. Once she undid Peter’s seatbelt, his mom tugged him away from the other boys and shot Ali one last dirty look. “I hate this place,” the mom said to no one in particular. That makes two of us, Ali thought.
            Three hours and forty-five Tilt-A-Whirl rides later, Ali’s shift ended. In the staff office—tucked away in Winter Wonderfest’s leftmost corner—she hung up her vest on a hook that was shaped like a snowman. She transferred the letter into her purse, clocked out, threw on a coat, and tried not to make eye contact with her annoyingly-cheery, candy-cane-striped coworkers. That was easy, since they were probably scared of her anyways. As she ran out of Winter Wonderfest, Christmas trees, food stands, an ice rink, and a dozen carnival rides vanished behind her. Her hair smelled like Peter’s vomit, and her hands smelled like the chemicals she used to clean it up.
On her way home, Ali fished two Ibuprofen from the bottom of her purse and dry-swallowed them. They wouldn’t make her head hurt less—she knew that—but she thought she should try anyway. She hugged herself because it was cold, and Maya hadn’t been around this morning to force her to put on a second jacket. A jean jacket isn’t a real jacket, she would’ve said. Ali unfurled her letter again, and, as she read it a second time, her hands grew numb. We’re just not right for each other. I realize that now. I’m serious this time.
After three blocks, two CTA bus rides, and a sweaty climb up her apartment’s back stairs, Ali reached 5B. She could spot it from miles away because of the gaudy gold wreath Maya had insisted they put on the door. It just reminds me of work, Ali once protested. But, clearly, Maya won that fight.
Ali fumbled with her keys and then slammed herself against the navy door. “Maya!” she called, but there was no response. She flung her purse onto the green couch—the one that Maya’s mom had given to her for her birthday last year—and ripped at the laces of her Docs. Maya’s dog ran toward her, his snout poking between her skinny legs. “Not now, Frankie” Ali muttered and pushed him away. Undeterred, he began to gnaw at her shoes. The heels this time, not the laces. This fucking dog, Ali thought. She needed to talk to Maya, to explain everything. She glanced into their bedroom, their kitchen, both bathrooms. No Maya. She rushed back to the couch, tore her phone from her purse, and called Maya. Voicemail. She called her again. Voicemail. Three more times. Voicemail.
Ali didn’t cry. She got up off the couch and went to their bedroom, her left fist clenching and unclenching. She noticed Maya’s duffle was gone, along with a few outfits and some toiletries: she must’ve left in a hurry. She couldn’t even say a real goodbye, Ali thought. Coward. Frankie followed Ali’s heels throughout the cramped room, even though she shooed him away. She dumped the contents of Maya’s drawers—long cardigans, yoga pants, overpriced t-shirts—onto the floor. Of course, Frankie began chewing at the lonely clothes. He was bored with the Docs, apparently. “Stop,” Ali started to say, but then she remembered that she didn’t care. Frankie could fuck up Maya’s clothes for once, instead of hers.
            Ali looked up. Her eyes met the photo hanging above their bed: her and Maya kissing at Wrigley Field. She mindlessly climbed onto their mattress, stood on her tiptoes, and knocked it off its hook. The cheap, plastic frame thudded against their carpet, which sounded good. Satisfying. So, she tore everything from their walls—baby Maya with her dad, Maya’s bachelor’s degree, Ali and Maya on Valentine’s Day—and watched as they slammed into the floors of 5B. Next, she dug through the fridge. She poured Maya’s weird pressed juices down the drain and trashed her Costco-sized package of Tofurkey, making a note to herself to order buffalo wings and a bacon cheeseburger as soon as possible. Oh, and she trashed that ugly wreath, too.
Out of spite—and, frankly, poverty—Ali decided that tomorrow morning she would put Maya’s jewelry box and everything in it on Craigslist. She would cover their now-bare walls with her watercolor nudes, the ones that Maya said were “just toomuchfor our house.” First though, she had to get rid of this dog, who wouldn’t stop whimpering. Frankie wanted his owner, and Ali knew that he wouldn’t shut up until she returned. Bullshit.
 “Come get ur dumb ass dog Maya,” Ali texted. An hour later, there was no response.
“I don’t want him,” Ali texted again, “uk that. wtf.” Again, nothing.
Ali’s head hurt a lot now.
“These Ibuprofen aren’t shit,” she grumbled to nobody. Frankie looked up at her with wide eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you,” Ali said. She leaned against the kitchen counter, the same one that she found the letter on this morning. Please forgive me. I think someday you’ll understand, Ali.
Ali swallowed hard, flung herself onto the green couch, and sank into it. It was late, she was tired, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep. So, she reached for Maya’s grinder on the wooden table in front of her and began to pack a bowl.
As she stuck her head out the window, the wind blew her curls out of her face. She’d never done this without Maya before. Ali closed her eyes and lit the bowl, inhaling deeply. Her left fist clenched and unclenched around Maya’s green lighter. As she exhaled, smoke drifted lazily in front of her and was eaten by Chicago’s chilly air. It was ten-thirty now—dark—and her neighbor’s windows twinkled. Streetlights peeked through wispy fog, barely illuminating the crosswalk below. Ali squinted and thought she could see some stars. She kept the window open, even after she’d stopped smoking, just to keep feeling the dreamy night air. She could taste this air, and, now, she could hear it, too. It sounded like the Tilt-A-Whirl. Or maybe a white noise machine. There was a white noise machine outside of her therapist’s office when she was a kid. Ali remembered that. Her head hurt less now.
Woah, she thought, and she sank back into the couch. Frankie curled up at her feet. The wooden table had never looked this big before, and it made Ali giggle. Her legs tingled, and she wiggled her toes. Frankie’s velvety fur tickled her bare feet. She giggled some more, but he remained unbothered. “What the fuck?” Ali asked him, “You’re always out here bothering me and now you wanna be boring?” Of course Frankie didn’t respond, but Ali half-expected him to. She rolled onto her stomach and began to scratch his floppy ears.Frankie closed his honey-colored eyes and twitched his pointy snout, but he didn’t move. It was like he knew that he’d been left, too.
“It’s okay, Frankie,” Ali whispered. “I’m still here.”