Near the Carnival

C.C. Russell

In the distance, the hesitant shimmer of the ferris wheel – its neon patterns churning against the breeze. She turned to me, asked if I was happy. I kicked at the sand, listened to the slap of the waves along the shore, pretended not to have heard her for as long as I could get away with it. When she told me that she thought it was a pretty simple question, I said of course and slid an arm around her waist, kissed her lightly on the crown of her head. We walked, almost in step with each other. The sea paid no attention to us. In the distance, the lights of the wheel glimmered promising an artificial sort of brilliance ahead.