The Fairgrounds

It takes a total of 18 minutes to brush your teeth, tame your hair with a comb, and find a presentable outfit. She flows down the steps to meet you outside her apartment.

“You ready to go?”

“Yep!” she replies, opening the passenger’s side door to your car.

You wonder how you got so lucky. Try to shake away any anxieties about whether she reciprocates your feelings. “Just say it,” you silently remind yourself. “I love you.” You know you’ll regret it if you don’t. You gnaw on your lower lip, driving away.

“You look really nice.”

“Hmm, thank you,” she muses.

“Can’t remember the last time the fair was in town,” you say, as the set of lights up ahead turns green.

“I know! I used to go all the time when I was a little girl, but not since before high school.”

“My brother and I used to keep a tally of how many different foods they would deep fry. The farm animals were the coolest part, though.”

“Nuh-uh. Ferris wheel and bumper cars. Easily.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Her head is cradled in her hand as she gazes out the window. Scratching your neck, now full of regret, you drive onward to the fairgrounds.

Nostalgia, excitement, and organ music race through the air. Is now a good time to tell her? To ask her? Groaning at the ticket stand line-up, you shield your eyes from the summer sun with one hand. Shifting weight from one foot to the other, you pat a gentle drum beat on your legs. She reaches for your hand to stop your nervous jittering and you smile, feeling comforted. After you pay for the tickets, she says she wants to head for a bathroom.

The question is, what is one supposed to do when left standing alone for five to ten minutes? The answer is resort to holding the bag, and people-watching. Her purse has an elegant paisley pattern, reminding you of Mary Poppins. You find yourself watching a child waddling some feet behind her father and older sister. No more than five years old, her cotton candy treat is a baby-blue cloud on a neat wooden stick. She stops in her tracks to bend down and pick up a particularly shiny rock, munching the cotton candy out the side of her sticky mouth. She shoves the treasure into her pocket and gallops to catch up with her family, one dangling-shoelaced sneaker at a time.

“Cute, huh?” you ask, handing back the purse.

“Very. Ready to walk the midway?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

She points out a throw-the-dart-at-the-balloon booth with purple, cartoonish pandas dangling in bunches. You decide that the only way to solidify this relationship is by winning her that stuffed animal. Hit and pop three on the far board, and the biggest prize is yours for the taking. Unfortunately, these games are rigged pretty well, even with the sharpest eye. All those nights spent with your brother at the bars and pool halls pay off sooner than you thought they would, though. You succeed in as few as three five-dollar attempts, and receive a forceful kiss on your blushing cheek. You stroll away triumphantly, as she squeezes the life out of the plushie.

You are overwhelmed by the aroma of hay and heat inside the small barn. How must the animals feel hauled up in here? A dozen pens to walk past, and a dispenser of generic food pellets into paper cups are all that’s provided. Holding her panda at a height away from the goat’s greedy jaws, she pets it’s horns curiously and feeds it out of her cup. She takes your photo with a particularly wet-tongued baby cow.

Standing in yet another line-up, you talk about nothing and everything. Dare each other to a food race and endeavor to shovel an entire plate of funnel cake into your mouth. Laugh, almost choke, and mop up melting ice cream off of her chin. Jog over to the vending machine as you try to remember whether her favorite soda was orange or coke.

Spinning, rubber, screaming laughter, a low hum of an electric generator. You do your best not to throw up as she forces you to play bumper cars, again. For some reason, they have a bug-themed design. She in her ladybug, and you in your praying mantis, get knocked and bucked and hit from every angle.

“I really love you,” you say, winding up and ramming into her red, polka-dotted left side.

“WAAhhaha,” she shouts, spinning wildly on the other side of the floor.

Artificial light becomes the new blazing sun against the dark sky. The Ferris wheel is lit up beautifully. This might be the best attraction after all. You hug her close. The whimsical sights, the distant and ongoing fanfares, and the smells are intoxicating. From the peak of the ride, looking down on the world. “I love you and I want this to go on forever,” you want to say, but you sit and enjoy your view.

As the hours pass, so does the energy. Strung lanterns hang from one post to the next. Her large panda plushie is clutched under your left arm. Her arms swing as she walks. Look over to see her – just her – and match her pace. It’s like a heartbeat; a rhythm perfectly in sync. You loosely interlace fingers and close the distance. Her hands are always cold. Your arm is tugged to the right as she suddenly pulls you into the cover of bushes alongside the path.

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

She stands on her tiptoes and gently pulls you into a kiss. She’s smiling against your mouth and you’re contemplating how girls are so soft. She giggles and you wrap her in your arms.

“It’s getting late,” she says with heavy eyelids. 

You scratch the back of your neck and sigh, starting the trek back to your car. You leave the fairground together, and the setting sun winks out of sight.