I whirl like spinning arms of the nearest ride and snap a picture. She’s so many steps away already, so I get a blurry shot of the back of a brunette head. Who says stuff like that? Was I talking out loud again?

I suppose it figures the one time I think I’m keeping quiet, I’m thinking out loud. Last time we came to the fair, all four of us, I kept my mouth shut for two hours, just to see if I could. Now I’m walking around alone, apparently talking to myself.

With a shake of my head, I come out of my contemplation and self reproach. I want to follow that brunette. I need to follow that brunette. My eyes, bleary with a smoldering sugar buzz and second smoke, dart up from my camera’s display to scan the crowd. Corn rows, bad perm, bleach blond, corn rows, worse perm, smooth brunette locks—Aha!

I run after, darting around the fat and unseemly, the dregs of society drawn to the garish lights. But my run feels slow motion. I’m too busy asking, hopefully not aloud, why am I following this woman?