There was something blue on the floor of a diner I ate at the other day. I usually don't pick shit up off of diner floors but I liked the color blue of this thing so I picked it up. Flipped it over and it was a ticket. A ticket to "Admit One Adult" to the Circus that was coming to town. Now c'mon, if that's not fate I don't know what is. Plus, you don't understand, my fiancée loves the circus. So double fate on you, sucka. Couple weeks later I took her to see it. Not a fancypants Cirque Du Soleil circus, mind you, and not a carnival - a circus. A blow-through-town circus. But a real ace one. Boy, it was like sorcery. Like a dream. I can't get the image out of my head of the aging Ring Master with his back turned to me, a giant embroidered tiger crawling over his shoulder and down to the tails of his worn cutaway coat, gloved hand stretching eerily through the machine-made fog toward the next act. The image keeps crashing into me, popping like a blown light bulb.