[ديسني] [كوتثر] "مرآة مرآة" عقد $65, ShopIntuition.com

"ماذا أنت تريد أن يتمّ اليوم?" يسأل الفتى.

أنا أنظر فوق من الحاسوب المحمولي, أعيني يتتبّع من الإصبع قدم إلى الرأس من رقمه يمدّد خارجا على نا فندق سرير. "كيف حول [ستربوكس]?" ي فقط كان فائدة حقيقيّة في [أرلندو], في أكثر من فلوريدا, الفتى في يتجعّد صفاح على [وورك-دي] صباح, بين [بوسنسّ ميتينغ] ه. "ماذا أنت تفكّر?"

"يفكّر أنا نحن 30 دقائق بعيدا من [ديسني] عالم, لذلك نحن [هف جت تو] ذهبت. تتلقّى أنت في أيّ وقت يكان?"

"[ديسني] أرض, نعم," يقول أنا. "غير أنّ لا [ديسني] عالم." أنا أرى برن من حرارة لزجة, أيادي لزجة, مقاعد لزجة عامّة, غير أنّ أنا يخزر, ويقرّر, "[لت'س] أتمّت هو."

هو يشتري التذاكر عبر إنترنت, ويتردّد نحن على إلى [كر رنتل] شركة. يشعر الفتى لهاثه' جيب في العداد. "نسي أنا, أنا لا أتلقّى رخصتي," يقول الفتى. "سيضطرّ أنت استأجرت السيارة."

أنا [هند وفر] [دريفر ليسنس] ي. "[س لونغ س] يحصل أنا يضع ل هذا."

يقول "أنت تحت 25," الرجل خلف العداد. "نحن يضطرّ ضاعفت المعدل."

"دقيقة," يقول أنا, تنهيدة, مثل يعطي داخل طفلة قليلا طلبات. "أيّ شيء لالفتى." أنا أدفع, ويمشي نحن إلى نا [سدن]. لطخة ال [غري] مع مقاعد كبيرة خلفيّة, هو [موم-موبيل].

"كان الوقت متأخّرة أنا ذهبت إلى [ديسني] عالم في ال 70," يقول الفتى. "شحنني والدي منزل ل يرمي [إيس كرم] على الناس من الفندق شرفة. يستطيع [أوه], [تك] [بلّ], نحن يتوقّف?"

"رفض, مثيرة, سيحصل نحن شيء أن يأكل في [ديسني] عالم."

"يريد أنا أن يتمّ فراغ جبل أولى," يقول الفتى. "أثرت أنا حقّا. ماذا حول أنت?"

"أجل," يقول أنا, "أنا فضوليّة حول كيف [ديسني] عالم يخلق هذا أخرى حقيقة. في أيّ فأرة عملاقة يمزّق أنت من." ب التصق أعيني إلى الطريق عامّ رطبة, وأنا فقط أنظر بعيدا من الدروب ضاحييّ ضاحية أن يلتفت إلى أسفل الراديو, أيّ الفتى ثبت على جدية صخرة. أنا أطوف في 85 [مف], وقريبا يرى نحن الإشارة: [ديسني] عالم منتجع, ثلاثة أميال.

"يحصل نحن قريبة!" يقول الفتى, صوته مثل يد قرقعة. يستمرّ الطريق عامّ أن ينزلق جانبا, وفجأة العشب يصفّ الطريق نظرات خضراء, الأشجار مستقيمة, الملط كبيرة مستنقع يروي مرتّبة. ودّيّة إشارات طلب يقود أنا 50 [مف], غير أنّ أنا لا أتمهّل إلى أن نحن نحصل إلى الموقف [تيكتر]. ينظر الفتى في المزدوج الرقم موقف رسم. “These hoes get you every turn.”

I hand the man some green, then park in a gray lot titled Pluto 11. I triple check the car’s locked doors, and grab The Boy’s hand. It’s only 8 a.m., but I feel the sun baking my skin, aging the black of my hooded dress, bouncing off the rose gold of my cut-away stilettos, the kind of shoes my mom wore to dinners when I was little. There’s a parade of parents The Boy’s same age, though they make his lean body look like a teenager’s: their guts spill over pleated khaki shorts, their skin bulges as they grasp children in trademarked Mouse ears. As we walk I notice a crack in the asphalt of the perfect parking lot.

“Say hello to middle America,” says The Boy.

“How about good bye?” I ask. We rush ahead of the herd and hop on the tram to the park, and though we’d come early before opening hours, Disney World was already packed with pint-sized princesses and their mothers who never lost pregnancy weight. Music trills from a flower bed groomed into a silhouette of Mickey Mouse’s head, and the recording plays bright as the blue ceiling of sky. Dancers prance out of the scene’s sunny corners, all fluttering fingers and Miss USA grins.

I break The Boy’s stare with a nudge. “I think these are all the drama students from that NYU-reject college I went to. Their theater management degree is paying off, for sure.” I look around, and the crowd of kids is catatonic, some lifted on dads’ shoulders, some clustered together, all pretty pouts paused, mouths agape.

“Welcome to the happiest place on earth!” shouts Mickey.

“Think that actor takes it up the ass?” I ask.

“Shh!” says The Boy.

The recorded welcome winds down, melting into audio sunshine and bird chirps I can’t tell from the real thing. The gate smiles open. We walk through a brief security check, where Mickey’s helpers politely paw my purse. “Laptops, huh?” asks the guard.

“I’m in the internet business,” I explain. “Porn.”

As soon as I zip up my bag, The Boy grabs my hand and we run to Space Mountain. We speed through the line, first in front of the roller coaster’s tracks. “You want to be the very first?” I ask. The Boy nods, and I switch with him. “Now you’re in front of everyone!” I coo. We climb in, and I put my glossy glasses away. Before we’ve shot off I’m yelling, pumping my fists, like a redneck father. “Yeah! Yeah!” The rocket jets off, and I become quiet until we whiz through the first curve. “Wooh!” I yell.

“Stop that.” The Boy turns around. “You’re freaking me — Ahh!” He yells as we zip down. “I am so scared!” His scream slips and dips while we whip around a black hole of space, fake stars winking at us through the curves. We slide to a stop.

“Were you really scared?” I ask, squeezing The Boy’s hand.

“I thought I was going to hit my head.”

“So we shouldn’t do it again?” I ask.

He tugs my hand in answer, and we run back in line. “You’re doing pretty well in those heels.”

“That’s because I’m a big girl.” After a brief wait, we hop into our second seats. I yell as soon as our plastic rocket jerks to a start, and I only pause my screaming to vogue for Disney’s money shot as we slip down the largest hill. We step out the ride, into a souvenir shop conveniently placed before our exit, and ponder breakfast. “I’d like a sugar-free hazelnut soy latte, please.”

The Boy looks at me. “You’re in fantasy land.”

“Okay, maybe coffee, a cup of ice, and a bottle of soy milk?” He stops at a moon-shaped snack bar, then brings back the items to our table. I improvise a latte, and as I pour the soy milk into the hot coffee, the beige blurs into two ears budding from a larger circle. I smile, suddenly amused with the retro future of the park. The playground’s still perky though it’s more than twice my age, and I feel young. “Thanks for taking me to Disney World, daddy.” I reward The Boy a PG peck on the cheek. We sun, sipping coffee, watching families walk by.

Our morning is melting into a Disney movie, the perfect setting for wondering wonderful “what if”s: What if there was world peace? What if everyone was as happy as a puppy? What if–

“If my wife got fat,” says The Boy, his eyes on a pear-shaped parent, “I’d make it very clear: ‘We’re not having sex anymore. I’m grossed out. Lose it or we divorce.’”

“I’m with you,” I say. My hand grazes his Ken Doll six-pack through his T-shirt, and pauses above his pants as a kid comes by, screaming. “That kid has got to be the best contraceptive ever.” The child’s cheeks tinge a tantrum purple, and the blue of the sky behind him looks more fake.

“So what’s next?”

We look at a map, and decide on Pirates of the Caribbean. On our way we past Splash Mountain. The Boy watches a messy fountain of water squirt up as we cross a bridge. “We’re doing that,” he says, tugging my hand.

“No way,” I say. “I like getting wet with you, but just with my clothes off.”

“You only live once,” The Boy lectures.

“My MacBook can’t swim, and it’s in my purse. And my shoes are really pretty.” I look down at the leather twinkling in the sun. “A girl named Kristopher is dry clean only.”

Another splash is punctuated with happy yells. I feel a drop of water land on my hair, and it’s like the period dotting my “No way.”

“Come on,” says The Boy. “You won’t get wet, I promise. And if you do, I’ll buy you Minnie Mouse ears.”

“No, no, no.” I stomp my feet, but he’s already pulling my hand, grip firm, dragging me into a run to the ride’s line. Quickly we get to the plastic log boats, and they bump into the cement borders of the fake river while wet riders climb out. I look at our assigned seat, already drowning in water. “I’m not doing this,” I whine, but The Boy pulls me down next to him.

“Take off your shoes,” he orders, and I slip them off and hand them over. He takes off his shirt.

I’m fast appeased, like a child. “Now we’re talking! How about your pants?”

He grabs my bag, and quickly wraps my purse and shoes up in his T. “See? I told you they wouldn’t get we–”

We’re showered as another log boat dives into Splash Mountain’s climax. I scream with the stream of water running down my body, using words even drunk Disney characters don’t know. “I’m so mother–” I feel the water drip down my back, little wet slaps on my butt. The Boy is soaking wet, grinning at me. “So gross!” I say, echoing a kid who saw The Boy and I kissing earlier that day. Our boat floats on, slushing gray-blue water all around. And though another drop never touches me, even down our final slope, I’m not relieved until we’re back out in the sun. I lift my dress up, unabashed like a kid, twisting my skirt so it drips all over the walkway. I notice disapproving stares from middle-aged mothers, so I stop and straighten my stance, my back in its best princess posture. A little girl sticks her tongue out at me.

I make a face back at her, then turn to The Boy. “Now let’s do the Haunted Mansion,” I say. “I love the Haunted Mansion. When I wasn’t skipping pre-calculus in junior high for Starbucks, I was reading ghost stories.” We get directions from a pimpled worker, and run past Main Street. The amusement park melts into a shadow of a New Orleans that never knew Katrina. We reach the Haunted Mansion’s line, and a teenaged Disney employee costumed as a decaying butler holds open the door, his eyebrows painted into a scowl. “Have you considered Botox for that?” I ask. He stares at me, stern, and I feel younger than him.

The Boy and I pile into an octagonal room with other tourists. The space quickly dims, and I feel my ass grabbed. “Was that you, or a Japanese tourist?” I ask The Boy. His smile glows a little in the dark. The lights come back on and we walk into moving seats for our haunted house tour. As soon as we dip into the dark, The Boy slips his hand into my blouse, and like naughty teenagers we make out.

We pause our pawing when we reach a room full of wives and husbands with their heads cut off. As we glide to the door, a bride in glowing green-white swings an axe. “Isn’t that how they all are, if not always so literally?” I muse.

“I think my college girlfriend looked like her,” says The Boy, and we go back to making out.

A plump ghost is hologrammed between The Boy and me as the ride twirls towards its end. “No way is he our third,” says The Boy. We jump out of our seats as soon as we see the exit, and I adjust my hood over my head, my sunglasses over my face, like some glammy, rebellious teenager.

Perfectly playing its role, the Florida sun beats down on my back, burning off the damp in my dress. “I’m saturated, what about you?” I ask The Boy. “The only thing we missed is a Small World.”

We pass a fat family fighting, with sweaty hot dogs in their hands.

“I think we’ve already seen it.”

We run through Disney World’s exit, and I’m ready to go back to our own private happiest place on earth:

The sheets of our hotel bed.

Related to "Mirror, Mirror":

» Celestina Cracked Mirror Clutch

» Could This Be Love?

» Ted Rossi Clutch, Silver Envelop

"Mirror, Mirror" keywords: $200 or less, Cover Story, Gold, Jewelry + Watches, Necklace, SEX, Travel .
You can follow responses to "Mirror, Mirror" through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.