She was still in her street clothes, dark blue Levi’s over white Keds, a white sleeveless top, but already wearing full, heavy makeup for her Friday-night shift. Past the soundproof glass, swarming little visitors trekked silently along the tables and slots in groups of two to six, their drunken laughter and the obsessive ringing of the machines on mute. The town was theirs. Without sound, the idling and backtracking of the tourists by the boat-shaped twelve-seat Treasures of the Mediterranean Jackpot Bonanza! 3D slot, or by the lantern-lit blackjack tables with seashell-brassiered dealers at the Siren’s Cove, looked positively insane. Young men and women dressed for a night out walked alongside European families in shorts and sandals, seniors in short sleeves and walkers, hotel guests in spongy white complimentary slippers. All looked ahead and around. A choreography of silence. The ballet of a madhouse.

It’s what they want, isn’t it? To get lost. Stretch themselves to the corners of the city, grow large, shapeless. Engulf more life than a single self can contain.