Lay your head down.  Rest.  Whatever those thoughts are doing to you, saying to you, remember I love you.  I sure am glad to be off that waltzer ride, though it was fun in a nauseating and disorientating  two time warp dimensional way.  I stagger like a tipsy girl.

To some temporary solitude.  There’s something intrinsically private about vomiting amongst the diesel fumes ande cables of a fun fair ride.  I make believe this is cool as only a teenager knows how to do. Riding the waltzer is nothing like waltzing.  Spinning with centrafugal force on the wall of death, is nothing like death, so I’m told.

I was wearing indigo jeans and a white embroidered gypsy top. I learned through other friends’ parents not to talk to any of the show folk.  There seemed to be some exciting and forbidden danger about running away with a travelling boy.  Those dark eyed, dark haired gypsy boys, who shook their coin filled hand for the price of their ride.

I paid them with silver and got my money’s worth by vomiting on the black boards behind the rides.  They’d have to clean it up, or get it under their fingernails when they packed up and moved on.  He would watch me from a distance.  A safe distance.  My gypsy boy, thinking he was invisible, I would turn and stare into the dusky self deception of his childhood.  And summers came and went, with the taste of pink candyfloss stuck in the back of my teeth.

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