“There’s something wrong with you,” Evie says, my season pass dangling from a thin silver chain between her fingers. It’s tattered, of course – the lamination has worn down on the edges and the paper and plastic have begun to separate, my picture’s at least three years old, and it’s burnt on the corner, although I don’t exactly remember how that happened.

If only she knew.

I sigh, because we’ve already been over this. Instead of getting into another arguement, I continue packing my clothes into my overnight bag. It becomes a familiar rhythm – fold, fold, fold, stuff into the duffle.

I’m an economy packer. I can go a week on three shirts and two pairs of shorts. That’s one thing I never understood about women. It’s also one of the many things that Evie’s never understood about me.

The truth is, it’s an addiction, the extent of which nobody really understands. Like drugs only worse. When I am at the crest of that hill, about to fly into the triple corckscrew, I am euphoric.

And so I go.