We walked the concourse, hay crunching under our feet, the smells of popcorn and fried bread haunting the air like candle smoke. We stopped somewhere around the Tilt-A-Whirl, and she turned to me. It was the fourth of July in her gaze. Her ash-blonde hair slept on her shoulders, not a strand worried by the November breeze. She smiled, and I returned the favor. A soft palm whispered across my cheek, and suddenly she was kissing me. We rocked there, in the middle of the concourse, enjoying the flavor of each other, the warmth. We defied the world for a moment, created an impervious bubble that I will forever be able to conjure on lonely nights, when the sandman’s lazy and darker days lay heavily on my mind.
A Crack in Autumn, by Edward Lorn