“Maybe deep down, you have hope that if youdocrash, it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe . . .” she says thoughtfully.
Then her eyes catch something beyond my shoulder. “Oh! Over there. I found one!”
Madison spends the next ten minutes telling the limestone-green man-statue knock-knock jokes and embarrassing stories and making absurd faces at him. The man does flawless work—doesn’t move so much as a centimeter. And that’s when a woman carrying a big-ass tote bag comes over and tells us, in a tone that screamshey idiots,that this is not a street performer. It’s a literal statue.
I’m now the proud owner of at least a hundred photos of Madison trying to make a rock laugh.
4:32 P.M.
“Best and worst thing about running the farm—go,” says Madison as we walk away from the hotdog stand, a glob of napkins pinched between her elbow and side.
“Best: the open air and getting to literally watch my efforts pay off when the crops come in. Worst: sunburns.”
“Really? I thought for sure you’d say the early mornings.”
“Nah, I love those. Being up before the world is my drug.”
I see her grimace from the corner of my eye.
“You disagree?”
“I mean, yes. But that’s not what my look meant. I made a bad decision with my order. How’s yours?”
“Amazing.”
I pluck her hotdog covered in relish from her hands and replace it with mine—chili, cheese, and mustard topping it.
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean for you to give me your hotdog,” she says, trying to take hers back, but I turn away and hold mine above my head.
“James! Keep your delicious hotdog for yourself.”
“Quit saying ‘hotdog’ so salaciously!”
“James!”
“Madison. Try that hotdog and tell me you don’t want to keep it.”
She gives me a look before finally taking a bite, and then her shoulders melt and her telltale moan escapes.
“Told you.”
She chews and swallows, then rips the drippy dog in half and extends part of it to me.
I raise my brows. “You’re going to share?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal and not actually the biggest gesture in the world, coming from her.
“What’s next on the agenda?”
I look around, hoping for inspiration to strike, since this whole thing was my idea, but I’m at a loss. Madison uses my moment of indecision to walk over to a guy in mini sunglasses (they can’t actually be doing anything against the sun), a vest sans shirt, and a pair of cream wide-leg slacks. He doesn’t look happy that she’s interrupted his reading time. But after a minute of talking, he’s laughing and showing her something on his phone.
And that’s how we end up at the Color Factory. We snagged two tickets an hour before closing.
The place is a literal explosion of color. I imagine this is what the inside of Madison’s mind looks like.
She disappears behind a curtain labeledCONFETTI ACCUMULATION ZONE, and when she steps out again she’s grinning like a five-year-old, bits of pastel paper stuck in her hair and clinging to her lashes.
