The mid-morning sun shines on my pink-ish skin. For a moment, I can fool myself into thinking that I'm just some sunburned tourist with weird body mods and that everything is fine and normal. I toss the keys to Roux, then adjust the headband that I am using to disguise my horns and hold my bangs away from my forehead. I clamber out of the driver's seat like a dog through a cat door.

When I turn back to the vehicle, Roux gives me that white person grimace-smile that I can instantly understand as meaning Stay safe; I wish it didn't have to be this way. I give them a thumbs-up (meaning, I'll definitely try, please don't get killed, I love you so much) and, in one clunky motion, grab my wallet and purse from the middle console, and kick the door closed with the thick black sole of my boot.

I think I look good today. I'm not exactly dressed for a trip to the 1950s. The black tank top, pink-and-yellow buffalo-check skirt, my yellow boots: they convey the main message and idea that I don't belong here. To be fair, Doug is in the same boat. His long hair touches the tops of his black denim jacket. His jeans are tight-- as in, way too tight, tight enough to cut off circulation.

Doug stretches with his hands locked and above his head, a mild groan, a tired grin. His tight red shirt slides back down his body. He grins lazily and rests his head on top of the car. "Are you ready to head in?"

"Yeah." I adjust the strap of my bag over my torso and move it closer to my hip. "How much are the tickets going to be?"

"Oh, we don't need to pay. Demons get in free." He drums on the top of the car as he pushes himself off of it.

"You could have told me that earlier."

"I thought I did."

"No, you definitely didn't."

Doug shrugs. "Whatever. You know we demons love rubbing our dirty little hands all over American nostalgia. Let's get going, then. You do not want to be here after dark."

We walk up to the ticket counter and Doug leads the way.

As we walk, I want to ask what he meant by that. The thought occurs to me, though, that I don't want to know. I don't want to be informed on what will happen to me if I don't toe the line here.

Instead, I ask," Who's the person we're here to see, anyway?"

"Old friend of mine. He's a master of illusion-- you'll like him. He's like a deceiver or something."

"A what?"

"I don't know the proper terms! Those are words your people use. We just call each other demons."

We walk up to the gray cement ticket booth and stand in front of its glass teller window, under the mint-teal awning and its generous shadow. My skin is still crawling and my mind is still trying to find some explanation for what Doug said. I try to put it behind me while we stand there, waiting.

It takes a while, but the teller finally looks up from what she was typing with tired, drooping eyes. She looks young, with bright dyed-red hair slicked and teased like she stepped out of a late-1950s surfer girl pin-up. The shaved leopard pattern underneath her helmet of hair is still visible, though. The ticket seller seems to be trying to fit into the aesthetics of this park and failing in some minor, completely obvious ways.

She doesn't say anything for a second, but she makes a gesture Doug seems to understand. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When prompted, he says, "Two tickets. And uh..." He drops his voice to a low whisper, licks his lips, and continues, "The demon discount, please."

"Excuse me?" the ticket seller says, seeming thoroughly bewildered. Doug raises an eyebrow. "Do you guys not have that anymore?"

"Are you a demon? The answer depends."

"Yeah."

"Prove it."

"Listen, lady, I'm not whipping my dick out to prove jack shit." There's something unsaid there, though. Even though he's visibly angry, there's an undertone of flirting. Like before, I don't want to know what he means by that. I'm okay with being ignorant in this circumstance.

"Fine. I believe you," she sighs. "And what about her?"

She looks me up and down, licks her lips slowly. I'm not sure if she means to. I try not to squirm as she asks again if I'm in a demon in the same way that someone would ask if I were available.

Doug laughs. "Half demon."

"Ah. Understood. You're here to see Jeb, huh?"

"I am, I am," I say, trying to seem nonchalant and comfortable when I am neither of those things. If there were a wall here, I would probably try to lean against it and then slip.

She looks me in the eyes. "But you wish you were here to see me, huh?"

"I-- what?" Ignorance and paranoia combine in the worst possible way to create a completely new emotion that rises like a wave of panic. It's the earrings, isn't it? I shouldn't have worn the homemade earrings shaped like lightning bolts. This is my fault. I should have known. I look down at her nametag. "Um-- Hirphias. I'm sorry. I'm flattered, I really am, but--"

"Oh! Sorry. No, it was a joke. Don't worry about it. I get it. You're here with your old man." She winks. "Maybe in another life. Sorry, I was just joking around. Either way, welcome to the park."

I get it now. I untense my shoulders. "Thanks!"

"Yeah, of course! Have a good time in there," she chuckles.

The park is larger than I thought it would be. It's surrounded by a massive stone wall that curves outward like the lip of a vase or a flower's petals. The inside features so many different rides and attractions that seem like they're trying to evoke those proverbial good old days when men were men and women existed only in the kitchen. It also seems to be trying to evoke images of retrofuturism, especially where rides like the Spindle are concerned.

I try to take it all in, from the rides to the souvenir booths to the counters serving snacks and soft drinks. As we walk in, I try to focus on that and all the Jello concoctions this place has to offer instead of the "we need to talk about this" look Doug is giving me.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm fine," I reply, my voice way more tense than it needs to be.

"Well, what's the issue, then? What's with the attitude? Are you straight or something?" he asks me, almost with an air of disapproval.

It makes my skin prickle, like I've messed up in some inconvenient way. "No."

"Then why--"

"Can we please talk about this later?"

I'm not sure why I'm so upset about all this, or why I'm acting the way I am. It's not like I want to come out to everyone in the middle of this stupid nearly-empty amusement park, to watching their perception of me change immediately.

I know it's not as bad as homophobia. I know that. I can walk around relatively unscathed. But anyone can pass for straight if they silence themselves enough. The fact of the matter is, I'm not. I'm not straight at all. I'm not attracted to men in any way, shape, or form. Sure, I can pretend-- and I did, before I knew it was okay not to.

But I'm also not attracted to women. I feel like I'm trapped in this limbo where there's nothing, there's nothing. It should feel like a vast emptiness is there, but there isn't one. Sometimes I wish there was-- but the truth of the matter is, you can't fill what isn't empty and you can't fix what isn't broken.

And I'm not. I'm not broken.

But, every time I tell someone about who and what I am, my mind jumps to the worst possible scenario. Either they see me as narcissistic and deluded, looking for some sort of oppression for all of this, or they see me as some cringeworthy, innocent woobie child that's probably just a late bloomer even though I have known this about myself since I was fourteen.

And I'm tired of it, of the fear of coming out. Who do I have that I can look up to, that I can use as an example or someone I can hold close to my heart like my own personal bastion of asexuality? Online activists, the kind who get articles written about them, share the same burden I do, with the same unease. I'm tired of it. I'm so goddamn tired of it. I want to hit something.

So I don't talk about it as much as I should. I'm no idol. I'm no role model. I'm a heinous bitch with an unhealthy love for the color yellow. My existence was a mistake.

I take a map from the kiosk and unfold it, peer at its brightly-colored legends and landmarks. Doug gives me a pointed look. "Mikey."

"What?"

"What happened back there--"

I snap the map, both to straighten it out and silence him. "Can we talk about this later?"

I'm surprised by how brisk and short-fused my voice is. The things Roux said to me back when all this started echoes in the back of my mind. Maybe I have been more snippy than usual lately. Maybe I am becoming a creature of rage and dissatisfaction. Maybe I am more corrupt than I thought.

I'm right, though. I don't want to talk about it. I just want it to be over. Clearly either Hirphias or I misread what was happening. I think I'm being pretty obvious about how much I don't want this to continue on like it is.

Doug sighs. "Fine. But we're going to talk about it sometime. Now, let's get to that office, eh?"

That sounds like a threat to me.