Today we went to the fair.

We walked together through a kettle corn-scented cloud

and you bought me a bracelet that

matches a set of earrings

that I already lost.

Man at the shooting range dares you to win me a prize-

I hate guns, but

I root for you, my warrior, my hunter,

In that moment you are my crusader

as you shoot a cork at a plastic cup

and win me a token of your affection.

We were hungry,

and you knew what I was looking for when

a girl said “they don’t have corndogs this year,”

and I, dismayed,

hung my head.

She went on to say that

she’d planned to try one for the first time,

but settled for onion rings.

Her hair was pink like the cotton candy sold

in the stall behind her

and this corndog virgin reminded me of myself, once,

before you.

We buy a dozen peaches,

the whole reason we came here

in the first place.

You pay the lady and

reach your greedy hand into the bag,

plucking out the biggest one and sinking your teeth

into its skin.

They have I Got It and we have two dollars

so we try our luck.

I see those red balls bounce into their neat little rows

and when I win I pick out a hat with a Superman logo,

because you are my superman.

On the long walk back,

you make me laugh

taking my mind off of the blister

on my little toe

and the fact that the car is still

a mile away.

When we get home,

the peaches are smushed,

but I don’t love you any less.

© Brigid Hannon

Brigid Hannon is a writer from Buffalo, NY. She has previously been
published in the Ghost City Press August Review and has work
forthcoming at Street Light Press and Madwomen in the Attic. She can
be found online at hamneggs716.wordpress.com and on Twitter
@stagequeen.