Carnival Ride; Long version

It’s Monday afternoon, and the sun is shining, thought the wind is chilly; I think it’s the perfect for a little fun and games. My car crawls along the highway; cars are everywhere, going as far as the eye can see. Finally they go down different lanes, ones I’m not heading for. Now I speed through desolate roads, without anyone seeing, and I enjoy my little joyride. Finally I reach the field, Gregory Square, though it’s nothing much; just some houses, and a little fountain in the center. They have decided to bring their carnival here, and it’s small. I almost read right over the little ad in the newspaper this morning. I enter, and the fee is only one dollar, cheap, considering the price of gas these days. As I walk, looking for a ride to spend all my money on, I sightsee. The rides loom like grim statues against the grey sky. I smell the buttery scent of popcorn, of paint drying on easels, and sugary cotton candy. I am wearing open toed sandals, and dust mixes with sweat under my toes, leaving little brown puddles of mud. I watch some of the rides; the Twister throws its passengers around till it’s all a blur, with sudden flashes of color. As I walk, I see a woman in a purple tent. Her face is in shadow, and she gestures to me. I enter her tent, and sit at the little card table she has set out. There is a big glass globe on the star speckled table cloth. She holds out her hand, and says in broken English, “two dollars,” I pay her, and she smiles, gesturing to the globe. “Your future?” My future? I already know my future; I’ll become a millionaire, with a big white house in California and ten children. I’ll have a beautiful wife who calls me “darling”, and “sweetie”. My job will be managing a company I create, with ten thousand people working for me. No, I don’t want to see my future shown in some snow globe. I frown, and gesture for the dollars. She snaps them up, and deposits them in her pocket. What a rip off! I swipe at the globe, but my fingers miss their mark. She screams, and falls of her chair. Her ankle catches one of the legs of the table, and it goes down. There is a great crash, and a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Glass skitters across the ground, and the table leans on its side, with the table cloth lying in a crumpled heap by the woman. She groans and pulls herself up. I make no move to help her. She stands straight, and tears leak out of her eyes. I don’t want to watch this, so I walk away from the tent, my feet sifting through glass.