Last Night in the Space Needle

Sandy is not used to the attention and hides her smile out in the cold air a thousand feet up above the dark lights of Seattle. But I see it reflected in the glass and reach out a hand to touch her cheek. "Really," I say, "you were hard to approach. What man wouldn`t have a hard time approaching one of your crew?" It`s my turn to feel the rush of warm blood to my face. I remember the celebration of the crowded bar and how she had been ringed by her teammates. I remember the sight of one woman, thick and strong, reach back with a fist and lay out a man who had pinched one of her teammates. Rowdy, obnoxious and alive with vibrant energy, the Rat City Rollergirls had taken over the dingy bar, spreading raucous, rolling conversation and the sweat of shared victory with the whole room. She had quickly caught my eye, red hair thrown around as she danced the Rat mambo. They were still in their uniforms and it clung to her like a second skin, the body of a racer meant to sprint out front and hold the line. Daring and brave I imagined she was the heart of the team and had every member battering the rival teams down to protect her. That I had chosen to slip through the barrier of teammates and kiss her suddenly was my mistake.

"That was quite a kisser you had. I`m suprised Laura didn`t kill you outright for putting the moves on me like that." Sandy laughs at the memory. "But I liked your style and damn glad I decided to talk to after you came around."

We had hit it off, finding a similar interest in pushing the limits of the body, myself competing in distance running events. I asked her out on the spot, promising a fully romantic night of wining and dining in the sky.

"You look different in a dress, like a flower instead of a bloodied warrior." This was the truth and somehow I sensed she appreciated the dainty and feminine things but had to keep in secret in the world of roller derbies.

"Look," she says, reaching out and taking my hand, "That`s a different side of me, a more public side that revels in the aggression and competition. You, me, thats a private side that I like. That you had the balls to intervene between the two, I like that even more. So lets enjoy this and maybe this can be more than a Saturday night free skate."

I smile and toast her with a glass of red wine. "To a future of life outside the athletic, outside the competition. To sudden friendships and deeper realtionships." Our glasses clink and the sound seems to symbolize a new future of love and exploration.

Far out over the dark cityscape a light suddenly blooms large and orange. It draws the attraction of the room and we all look over through the glass. "Was that an explosion," I hear one woman ask. A small mushroom of flame and smoke rises up above the burning sight of a gutted building. The whispers and raising hysterical cries of "Terrorist!" go up here and there. Sandy looks at me with a hint of fear, wide eyes asking me to tell her its nothing. The restaurant continues to turn and soon the flames are out of sight.

This time I can feel the whole Needle quiver under the shockwave. Two huge balls of flame rise up past the windows which rattle slightly in their molding. "My god," someone screams, "the Columbia Tower and Pacific Place have been hit." By what is not clear but even I can see the shattered remains on the street and the jagged teeth of the lower half sticking up. Some of the restaurant patrons are fleeing for the elevators when a glare stabs shadows up the wall. I turn and see a spreading wall of light coming from the northern peninsula, sweeping down skyscrapers and sending the dark rain clouds into nothingness. "Hold on!" I shout, grabbing Sandy and diving for the floor.

The lights fail. The structure shakes and somewhere windows shatter. The world goes black.

"John!" slap, a sting across my face. I awake with a table covering half my body. "John, get up goddammit!" Sandy is shouting into my face, looking so regal and beautiful when she`s angry. "What are you smiling about? Look!" And I do, sitting up and clearing my eyes. I`m looking at the ceiling, why? I look down beneath the table, and see a million flickering flames and the guttering remains of a destroyed Seattle. The entire top of the Space Needle has tilted downwards, hanging by the strong steel of the elevator cable. The windows are smashed and our table lies wedged in the frame of one.

"Jesus," I cry. "Was it nuclear?" "Does it matter?" she moans, and I realize shes right. The groans of a straining cable reach my ears and maybe we are not as safe as I thought. "I love you," I say. "I know," she says, "I should have said it too earlier. Were we such fools?" I hug her tight, feeling the years we should have had, the right to grow old in love and life fading. Her hand finds mine and in her eyes I see the fear and it hurts me that I cannot do anything except hold her tight. "Hold on" is all I can say.

The twang of parted steel and the rush of wind through broken windows and the growing ground of flames, stone and eternity.