Whether we hail a yellow taxi or order a Town Car from the car service, the ride from lower Manhattan to Coney Island takes about twenty-five minutes. Maybe thirty to forty if there’s a Saturday traffic jam in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.

Waking up this morning, before even thinking about the day with Madeline ahead of me, my first thought was, That seems like a short ride.

It never seemed fun to me, sitting in a car on the interstate. For anything beyond walking distance, I usually refuse to travel any other way but car—or first-class commercial if it’s thousands of miles away.

Today is different, though. Today, I’m taking Maddie to Coney Island, and I want to get there the same way I did as a kid.

I still don’t know where Maddie lives, and there’s a good chance that she has to take the subway every day, and she may even be put off by the idea of taking the train for fun.

It’s not something that I expected to occur to me, either, but somehow the idea of sitting on the Q train with Maddie for forty-five minutes sounds like the best way to get anywhere in the city.

I hope that it turns out to be okay in reality, since she already agreed to meet me at the station at Canal and Broadway. This may end up being the last time we spend together outside some regulatory agency-mandated ugliness.

How did she even end up in New York? I could just ask her, but that’s not the type of question I think she’d respond well to at this point.

The forecasts, even five days back, were right about today. It feels like the city time-warped to the middle of the summer—one of those perfect summer days in the mid-eighties without too much humidity.

Of course, it’s only in the low-seventies today, but after that winter we’re just recovering from now, it sure feels summery.

The temperature feels perfect for the linen shirt I’m wearing as I walk uptown on Broadway by myself, in a much better mood than I was just a week ago.

This week, thanks to the weather, it seems like the entire tri-state area is out on Broadway with me, all decked out in t-shirts, sweatshirts and beige shorts.

It’s not typically a mood-enhancer for me, but today I’m easily feeding off the collective, jubilant energy of the locals even as I fight through the masses, so it doesn’t take an hour to walk the ten blocks up to Maddie.

It doesn’t end up taking that long, but the crowd’s so dense when I get to Canal that it’s almost enough for me to give up and go home.

But she’s there when I get to the southwest corner of Canal and Broadway, across the street by the station entrance.

Her shorts and brightly multicolored short-sleeve chiffon top are kind of in the same ballpark as the fashions sported by the big clumps of weekenders surrounding her.

Yet, I can say confidently, she looks so much better than any one of them. The clothes fit her shape perfectly as she slightly leans to one side by the subway station railing.

Her large white cat-eye sunglasses flatter her face as well—even if they do hide some of her most amazing features.

After spotting me, Maddie shifts her stance almost imperceptibly. She doesn’t wave; what’s expected of me is clear.

I ride the surge of pedestrians at the crosswalk towards Maddie. I don’t know if the light’s red, but any poor bastards trying to drive downtown today are out of luck at any intersection.

Maddie stands up straighter as I approach, and her neutral expression, with a haze of annoyance—the standard waiting in New York face—softens just a touch.

I get as close as I can. There’s a loud and obvious signal that I need to respect, and it’s telling me that we’re just acquaintances today. We know each other through a loose, contentious association, but we can be civil for now.

No hugs, no handshakes. I need to choose a good greeting for this dynamic.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” I say.

“Just a few minutes.” I don’t know if Madeline’s telling me not to worry, that she’s only been here a few minutes, or that she’s vexed and being sarcastic.

The train may have been a poor choice.

“Shall we?” I gesture to the stairs underground like we’re at Per Se on a dinner date.

Maddie nods affably and capers, almost prances, happily to the stairs. She keeps her happy gait as I follow her down into the station, digging out my MetroCard in time.

For her, this is a daily routine, but she doesn’t seem to mind being here today in the slightest.

I manage to swipe myself through after Maddie, finally catching up with her as we board the Brooklyn-bound train.

It’s an older car, and we find a pair of bright yellow and orange bucket seats facing forward.

I struggle to come up with a conversation piece, but she beats me to it.

“I went to undergrad and grad school in Boston. I feel like I missed out on going into Brooklyn all the time as a young ‘un.”

Maddie takes off her sunglasses and puts them in her canvas purse. I was wrong—I don’t know what mode she’s in, but we’re not in work-land anymore.

I smile slightly. “You’re thinking of Williamsburg, probably.”

“Am I?” Maddie turns to me as the train goes over the Manhattan Bridge.

“That wasn’t Brooklyn when I used to go there as a young ‘un. That Brooklyn is the one we’re seeing today.”

“Okay, Mister Barrett. Hope you can show me around your old stomping grounds.”

I almost get whiplash, pivoting from a legitimate Maddie-joke, delivered with a smirk, to Madeline looking towards the front of the train with a dead expression.

“Okay, young lady, we can hit up some real hip dive bars with microwave pizza on the way back if that’s what you want.”

“I bet you’d enjoy that, too...” Maddie’s still facing forward, not looking at me, but her lips are trying to suppress a mild smirk, “...young man,” she mumbles, possibly thinking I can’t hear her.

We’re going back underground into Brooklyn, one of those bleak parts of riding the train I’ve never enjoyed.

But today, I don’t mind it that much.

“I think I’d enjoy Tomasso even more,” I suddenly announce.

Her brows furrow. “What the...what in the world is Tomasso?”

“I thought you knew a lot about upscale dining.”

We pull into the Dekalb Avenue stop, and Maddie’s face drops. I forgot that we weren’t discussing that part of our lives.

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” she says flatly, but she still looks like she’s enjoying herself, while we zoom through the express stops to Coney Island as the scenery gets more interesting.

“Okay, I see a rollercoaster out the window. Where are we again?” Maddie asks as the train’s making its final approach.

“Not Williamsburg,” I reply.

“Not Williamsburg. That’s an interesting name. Accurate, I think.”

Maddie puts her sunglasses back on and steps past me on the way out of the train. I follow closely behind, but she’s walking with purpose now.

“Look, there are the mermaids!”

Maddie points at the beachside makeshift burlesque stage like it’s a long-lost civilization.

She walks briskly there, and I follow her, eventually catching up after she chooses a spot from which to stand and watch.

Maddie’s giving every iota of attention she has to the show, although it looks more like a dress rehearsal for the actual performance tonight.

There are women of all types—over a dozen of them—with unique mermaid getups. The costumes look very professional, with a touch of individuality and care. They all designed their own costumes.

The performers are all cavorting on the stage at the same time, with no music and a tiny audience. I think we both realize it’s a rehearsal, and, with a shared look, we’re both off to the nearby beer stand.

The beach is hardly populated, and it stretches in front of us for miles, while we drink brown ale from plastic cups.

I look down at my chocolate loafers.

“These shoes aren’t coming in my apartment anytime soon.”

Maddie studies my footwear with a confused expression that I think is sarcastic—though I don’t know for sure.

“They’re not?”

“Aren’t you thinking about sand in your shoes? What shoes do you have that are so unimportant...”

Then, my eyes land on Maddie’s feet next to mine. She’s wearing her pink Chuck Taylors.

“I guess you know how to take pretty good care of footwear,” I comment, leaving it at that.

“Hey, if I’m gonna pay what Chucks cost these days, I’m gonna want them to last a few years. And I take the time to clean the sand out of my sneakers properly.”

I’ve seen her wear those shoes on the beach before.

“A few years for shoes at a low price range is pretty good.”

“Oh, right, I forgot you were Rich Uncle Pennybags.”

“Well...we don’t need to talk about that right now.”

“Okay,” Madeline chirps in her cheerful way.

This must be it—the old Maddie, the Maddie I know, coming out to enjoy a Saturday.

“Hey, come on,” I hear her demand, and, the next thing I now, she’s doing that fast, purposeful walk again towards Luna Park.

As she speeds up, I let myself lag a few yards behind.

If her spirit’s coming out, I need to let it fly free.

When she stops in front of the Sling Shot ride, I trot a bit to finally catch up.

“Perfect choice after we both just drank two beers,” I declare while buying all-day park passes on my phone.

“I know, right?”

There’s only a smattering of other people wandering around the park, and the attendant gets us strapped onto the Sling Shot almost right away.

“Have you ever been on one of these before?” Madeline’s face is aflame with pure glee. Her grin is almost maniacal, but I can’t take my eyes off her as I feel the ride start to move.

Without warning, we start rocketing straight into the sky, and Maddie is bursting with delight. Her smile is wild and untethered as she screams and laughs.

It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen, even as my stomach flips and flops all the way down to the sand and straight up towards the stratosphere and back down again. The ride is over too soon.

Maddie’s face doesn’t change as we work our way through most of the rides until just after we get off the Brooklyn Flyer, and her ecstatic beaming settles into a merely content smile.

“That was fun, but I’m ready to eat,” she proclaims.

“What are you talking about? We haven’t been on the Cyclone yet.”

“Fuck...okay, we’ll check out that ancient coaster, but then I want to try that Tomasso place.”

The Cyclone is the only crowded part of Coney Island today, and Maddie and I need to sit in the very last car.

As the century-old ride starts powering up, Maddie and I start laughing in unison while we rattle down the wooden track.

We climb up to the first drop. I’ve already prepared myself, but as my stomach’s violently jolted, Maddie and I suddenly lock lips.

The kiss is over as soon as the drop ends, and the rest of the shaky ride is a blur.

Dinner’s a blur as well, but a happy one over Maine lobster and ossobuco as a skilled tenor serenades us with the help of a pianist.

There’s no more kissing, not much more talking. There’s a bit of laughing, but that almost completely dies down by the time the check arrives.

But for a little while, I feel like I just got a glimpse into what life could have been like if things had ended just a little bit differently between us.