It was a deceiving time of day just after sunset. The sky was a deep purple hue tinted with mauve and gold. The earliest stars and planets were bright and distant on the horizon. The change of light brought little relief, but charged the atmosphere as neon rays reflected off spinning glints of silver, and blinding primary colors pulsed to the surreal sounds of an organ. In the darkness the air was uncomfortable, stifling in its stillness. Carnies and customers, muted and tanned and sweating, bargained and bartered, voices rising to be heard above the steamy hisses and grinding roar of generators. The smell of diesel fuel and dust and anticipation settled over everything and everyone.

Aislinn had learned to avoid eye contact with the carnies who leaned over rickety stalls or tried to tempt her to climb aboard rides. They reached out to her with arms extended, fingers curling as if they were already touching her. In their gray coveralls, they were like pigeons, cooing and clicking their tongues. She held her gaze down on her shoes. Winning games of chance was not her concern. And she had no desire to be taken high, higher, higher than thought imaginable on a giant wheel, to trace the heavens with her fingertips and then lean forward to see the world as something insignificant below. Nor did she need to spin, furiously and ridiculously around until she caught sight of her very own past. All of that was possible, of course, and necessary for some. But her reason for coming was down the road, around the corner, to a smaller dirt path where the music grew fainter, the lights faded, shadows danced instead of colors.

The tent was plain and white. One flap of canvas was held back with a coarse rope, revealing a dimly lit interior. An old carny woman guarded the entrance. She sat on a stool near a wooden podium. Her heavy legs were spread and scarred, and dimpled knees peeked out beneath a blue denim skirt. With her feet perched on the lower rungs she had the appearance of a large, exotic bird.

Her watchful eyes, the color of dewy blackberries, followed Aislinn's approach. She nodded at her in recognition.

"So, Aislinn, you're back," she said. Her grin revealed vast black gaps separated by the occasional tooth.

Aislinn stopped near her, ready to hand over her money, not ready for conversation.

"My name. You said my name," she said slowly. "We've never spoken." "No, but you've been here before, you've seen me," the woman replied. Her voice was kind; the accent was musical, indefinable.

"Yes," Aislinn said softly. "How do you know my name?"

The woman laughed, practically a cackle. A hint of whistle, a shade of song emanated from her throat. Feathery waves of silver and black hair curled around her face; wrinkled lines were etched into her arms like the definition on a bird's wing.

"It's a cosmic carnival, Aislinn. You know we know many things here. Human names have always fascinated me. Aislinn, a Gaelic name. But...," she said, lifting herself and then resettling slowly on the stool, "a Gaelic name with two meanings. Are you 'the dreamer,' or are you the dreamer's 'inspiration?' I've wondered that about you."

Aislinn, puzzled, listened to the rhythm of the woman's words. The accent, what did it sound like, almost, was it Greek? Or is it just Greek to me? she asked herself with a wry smile.

"Enough about names. Your money," the woman said, holding her hand out. Aislinn handed over her cash, warm from her pocket. She felt the heat pressing her dress against her damp skin, and the thin white chiffon scarf she wore around her neck was tight.

"Your ticket, here," said the carny, as she pushed the money into a slot on top of the podium. "Which door tonight?"

With this question, Aislinn peered into the opening of the tent. She knew the booths would be marked exactly as they had in the past. Booth 1: Prince. Booth 2: Pain. Booth 3: Grief.

She turned her head back to look into the carny's even gaze. "If you know so much here, why don't you know what my answer will be?" she asked.

The carny laughed again. "We only provide the tickets, Dreamer. Eventually you have to decide what it is you want. Now choose and go, before talking too much to me makes that impossible."

Aislinn stepped toward the tent, frowning. It was true. She was almost reluctant now to enter. The woman had shifted once more on her perch, facing the dark road.

"I choose Booth 3, again," she said, and her voice trembled as if it were a question.

"And you think I would argue? It's your truth, your need."

Aislinn said nothing.

She continued inside, pausing briefly in front of Booth 1. Prince. She remembered the mistake of selecting it during her first visit. It was the choice she assumed she should make, as opposed to what her instincts had told her to follow. Only later did she realize the words and ideals of the Prince were useless when it came to her fantasy. What did the Prince truly understand other than adulation and perfection. Flowery sonnets dedicated to her beauty and to love had sounded false, predictable, and disappointing. She had slouched in the booth, untouched and unmoved.

Booth 2, Pain, had never interested her. Pain was plentiful. Pain was reality. There was no need to run to it as an escape from something else. She stopped in front of the third booth. Behind her a woman quietly exited from the Prince booth. She was flushed, her steps light as she left. Aislinn envied her. She believes, she thought. The poetry makes sense to her.

She sighed and entered the third booth. The door and walls surrounding her felt shifty and temporary. Of course everything was. Fantasies were temporary. A thrill only lasting the length of a ferris wheel ride, she reasoned. The booth was painted a harsh shade of mustard yellow. The door closed crudely behind her, forced to fit into its uneven frame. When the doorknob clicked, it seemed to release some sort of trigger. A yellow bulb attached near the front corner of the booth began to dim. The red vinyl bench along the short wall to her right appeared wine-colored. The walls were now mellow, radiant and soft as candlelight. She sat down cautiously on the bench. In front of her, barely a few feet away, was a plywood square, covering an opening in the wall.

She waited. She leaned back against the rough, unfinished wooden wall and shut her eyes. The gritty sawdust and sand on the ground felt too real, and she slipped her feet out of her shoes and pulled her legs up beside her on the seat. She thought knowing what would happen next would make the events less startling. But the scraping noise of the plywood square as it shot up into a hidden recess in the wall still caught her off guard, causing her to jump and open her eyes.

Through the two-by-two foot square opening she saw the shadowy outline of a man. Only the silhouette of his head, his shoulders, his chest, was visible. She could not make out any of his features. The light behind his dark outline was a dull gray. It didn't matter. She shut her eyes again. She let her thoughts go, wherever he might guide them.

"It is all right." His voice came through the window to fill the booth with its rich, deep timber. "It's all right that you're here, that we're here, Aislinn."

"I'm sorry I left, Aislinn. You were torturing yourself. I thought I couldn't help you anymore. But maybe that's why you've come back. You think I can help again."

"We both lost her, Aislinn."

She felt air, a breath, close to her skin. Impossible, he was too far away, but she breathed it in, regardless. This was her time; he was closer, closer. He was with her. They were home.

"But isn't time supposed to heal? Those years were empty for both of us. We were connected together once--through her, with her--please, tell me we can try again. I lost you, too. "

His voice was choking on tears. She tasted her own, hot and salty, as they ran down her face and into her mouth. A minute or two passed, and she heard his voice, calm again.

"I thought I could be tough when I left. I thought it would wake you up. The truth is I was scared, scared after I did go that I'd burned all my bridges. But maybe you never really burn them all. You can always find one still standing if it's what you want."

"No, I never wanted you to let go. But I couldn't stand by and watch you kill yourself, either. You know it's true. If you saw a child doing something funny, and you laughed, you punished yourself. If a joke made you smile, if you felt anything -- anything other than grief, you would shut down. I couldn't reach you, I couldn't touch you, I couldn't help. I was as alone as you were."

"That's why I'm here. Please, please, lie down beside me."

In her mind they were close together on their bed. She pressed her back up against his chest. His left arm went under her head like a pillow, his right arm over her shoulder like a soft, warm blanket. On the bench, in the booth, she drew her legs up under her chin, wrapping her arms around her knees, leaning her forehead against them. She stopped crying.

"It's your heart that didn't stop. No matter how hard you wanted it to. You survived. You're alive, and you're here, and no matter how hard you try to fool yourself, you want love again, don't you? I know the grief, Aislinn. I think that's what it is. I want to understand. I think you know, I do understand."

She released her arms from around her legs and lowered them by her sides, gripping the edge of the bench tightly with her fingers. She raised her head and let out a small cry, a barely audible moan, but a sound of relief from deep inside where she wanted once again to feel something sensual and familiar. It felt as powerful and certain as her own quiet heartbeat. He understood. It was all that she asked for.

The plywood panel slammed back into place. The dimmed bulb began to brighten. The mellow walls intensified back to glaring mustard. She sat still for a moment, and then slowly loosened her grip on the bench and lowered her legs back to the ground. She raised her hand to the back of her neck. Her scarf was wet with sweat. She untied the flimsy knot, slipped it off, and lowered it into her lap, stroking the material between her thumb and finger. Then she stood, took one step to the front of the booth, and gently draped it on the wooden sill.

When she came back out of the tent, the old carny woman did not speak, or even look at her. Aislinn walked by her and past the next tent. Above its entrance, dazzling, racing bulbs of red and blue screamed Girls! Girls! Girls! Another carny, this one male, but as exotic in his own way as the woman before, was hawking at the men who shuffled in front of him.

"Step right in boys, here it is, they're all naked! All for you! Your own private booth, your own private show! Come on, it's what you want, it's what you need and it's all inside!"

His voice grew fainter as she hurried away. The music, the roar, the sounds of all the dreamers faded behind her along with the silvery movements that disappeared into the dark, cooling earth. She felt her eyes filling up again with tears, but now their heat seemed to melt the tormented memories that had formed into a knot of ice. She walked on, back down the road, and then through the field, beyond the midway.