I ripped tickets in half and counted children fidgeting in line for the season’s last carousel ride. One, two, three, four. Tomorrow, I’ll be here no more. Three thousand miles from Oakland, at the college in Maine, it’d be cool with changing leaves and autumn rain.

I lifted a girl onto a wooden horse with a painted black coat and thick carved mane. “This one’s called Midnight. Hold him tight and don’t let go.”

She nodded, blonde curls reflecting the orange cast of the setting sun. I wove my way around the carousel, checking stirrups and halters and saddles of the antique horses I’d given secret names. Their eyes, big and white, looked ominous in the near-darkness. Only Chestnut remained riderless.

“What time you get off, Maddie?” Rick worked at the puppet theater next door. He had thick brown hair and hands that had probed my tan line all summer.

“Eight.”

“I’ll swing by.”

I nodded and hit the power switch. Like the summer, the carousel took its time to reach full speed. In June, I’d washed dirt off the horses on quiet days, stroking their carved manes so they wouldn’t feel alone. July was late-night kissing and avoiding home, done with high school but not yet on my own.

The carousel spun fast now, colors blurring, the organ music that had blared all summer. One, two, three, four. The melody haunted me when I lay in bed at night, damp in cotton sheets, worrying about student loans and roommates, making grades and making friends.

“Mama, look!” The girl on Midnight screamed.

“Maddie, goodbye!” I imagined Chestnut cry.

I moved along the carousel with its glitter and the rainbow colors that swirled in the dusk. Nearby, parents pushed children in double-wide strollers, couples held mountains of cotton candy, girls in shorts clutched hands. The horses were golden with red lips and blue saddles, or dappled gray mares. The night smelled of sweat and burnt popcorn. The carousel spun faster. The song played on, the refrain I’d made up repeating in my head. Tomorrow I’ll be here no more. Chestnut’s eyes watched me as the horses circled in their endless loop. My throat tightened.

I jumped onto the spinning platform, made my way to Chestnut and swung on. Reins in hand, I blew on his neck, whispering his name. Chestnut rose and fell as if jumping through pastures, across east across dry California fields toward the Atlantic coast.

The little girl on Midnight cried out. Lights glimmered against the night sky, carnival shades of green and pink. Chestnut galloped on. The music shrieked to a crescendo. My thighs pressed against the wood. I closed my eyes, willing both of us to fly.

Rick and I kissed in the parking lot until the last streetlight flickered on. Before he drove me home, I looked back at the carousel. The children were gone until next summer. The horses stood silent in the dark.

Kristen Ray’s short fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Mystery Tribune, Typehouse Literary, The Ocotillo Review, WOW! Women on Writing, and Exposition Review Flash 405. Kristen lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. To read more of Kristen’s work, visit https://www.kristenrayauthor.com.