Knock kneed and narrow limbed in the tangled shade between two tents, agape and still reeling from that first kiss: quick and dry and off she’d gone, back into the throng of gleeful guests.
It glowed with me then; with buzzing neon proclaiming promise and the wide, bright whites of smiling eyes and teeth.
But when the gleam was gone and the lights burnt black, then it’s just tattered canvas and rooking booths sans hawkers and marks, webs cobbing unwon, stuffed prizes. A precarious Ferris wheeling slowly on rusted spokes. Merry-go-rounds that aren’t and don’t. A lone busker, weary and worn, once smiling creases now forlorn, eyes on a crowd that isn’t in attendance.
David Smolenski has lived most of his adult life in California’s Bay Area where he attended U.C. Berkeley, studying psychology and economics. He now works and writes in San Francisco. David is rarely published, but his mother claims to love him nonetheless.