The Giant Wheel – Part 2: Friday Rides

He came every Friday for seven weeks.

He sat in the same red cabin, at seven o'clock, with a paper bag of roasted chestnuts and an expression of cheerful dread. Klara held the wheel at the top for a minute, as promised, and talked to him through the speaker about nothing in particular. Gradually, the dread faded. By October, he was standing at the window, looking out.

On the last night of the season, the fairground closed early.

The stalls were shuttered. The carousel lights went out. The crowds drifted away, and the old park fell quiet, apart from the creak of the wheel and the cool wind in the trees. Klara locked the gate, turned off the music, and walked over to Tobias, who was waiting at the foot of the wheel with his hands in his pockets.

"Last ride," she said.

"I'd like that."

"I thought you might want company."

She opened the door of the red cabin and climbed in beside him. He stared. "You never ride."

"Not once. In eleven years."

"Why?"

"Because I'm always the one who stops it."

She nodded to her assistant, who pulled the lever. The wheel turned. They rose slowly, side by side on the wooden bench, higher and higher over the rooftops. Vienna spread out beneath them: towers and chimneys, the silver Danube, the glowing line of the trams. A faint mist rose from the park. The sky was a deep, clear indigo, scattered with stars.

At the very top, the wheel stopped.

It was entirely silent. The cabin swung gently. The city lay below them like a jewel box.

"It's beautiful," said Tobias.

"It's the first time I've seen it," said Klara.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, at the top?"

"Yes," said Klara, softly. "And if you say stop, you must ride with me every Friday."

"That's not a punishment."

"No."

He kissed her, shy and warm, a hand rising to her ponytail. She kissed him back with a bright, wondering joy, tasting of chestnuts and cold air. The lights twinkled along the spokes. The wheel hung over the sleeping city.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Klara. "Very green."

The wheel runs every Friday in winter now, for two passengers. It stops at the top. The operator's hut has a small note on the lever: Only when the time is right.

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