George once complained there weren’t enough orange balloons at Disney World. He also criticized clowns for red noses, grandmothers for ill-matched browns and fuchsias in afghans, and rainbows for lack of color theme. It wasn’t that he was difficult to please, exactly...

Well. Yes it was.

I hadn’t gotten to know George very well by the time he’d commented on my denim skirt. “Too casual for the office,” he’d said. Thereafter, I wore it only on weekends. It shouldn’t have mattered, but George had a way of talking the tallest person in the room into believing he was a midget.

I was an easy target, I suppose. I felt small most of the time anyway.

I was wearing that skirt Saturday night. I’d been driving home from dinner, and had taken a left turn at Market Street, when I’d discovered a carnival. Creaking rides and squealing children were cramped onto a plot of dust that only yesterday had contained a single, drooping maple tree. My car veered toward the parking lot without my permission, and I sat with the motor running, watching giant, mildewed teacups whirl around a rusted platform, pondering for a long time what I was doing there.

I finally realized I was curious if they had a merry-go-round.

I got out, and found the meager line of people near the ride. That’s when I met the humped little man who was running it. I didn’t notice him right away; I was watching the faded carousel lion. But he commented on my shoes.

“I’m sorry?” I said, and leaned over a little to hear him better.

“I like your shoes,” he repeated. “Sensible kind. They match your pretty skirt.”

At first I thought he was teasing. Then I wondered if he was flirting.

He grinned up at me, tipping his head because he couldn’t straighten his back. His eyes had a kind of light behind them, but it may have been a reflection of the merry-go-round’s canopy bulbs.

I was still regarding the hunchback, trying to read his expression, when I was suddenly bumped into from behind. “Watch yourself there, Justine.”

I knew it was George behind me; I recognized his whiny voice. I managed to turn and look at him without groaning.

George laughed. “Funny us meeting like this. I hadn’t planned on stopping, I was on my way home, and the lights attracted me.” George pointed at the broken shaft that was supposed to hold a flag atop the carousel. “Flag’s missing.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Fourteen lights burned out, and the unicorn’s not pumping up and down.”

“I was thinking of riding the lion, anyway.”

George’s head bobbled in a lopsided nod. “You going to climb up in that skirt? Awfully dressy for a carnival, isn’t it?”

I didn’t owe him an explanation, but one came out anyway. “I hadn’t planned on stopping, either. The lights attracted me, too, I guess.”

“And the cotton candy,” said the hunchback carnie. “I’ll bet you haven’t had any since you were a kid.”

I smiled. “There is something special about cotton candy.”

“Wait until you try ours.” The carnie’s eyes still held that backlight.

“Just sugar and air,” said George.

“Well, I’m going to get some. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Tell them to give you Dade’s Special Lemon.” The hunched man winked.

I nodded and ducked away. I expected, hoped, to see the last of George that night, but by the time I wound my way between rides and people to reach the food vendor, George was leaning against the trailer, waiting. He had his arms crossed, and he was scowling the way he did when he was gearing up to reprimand my choice of jewelry as a professional representative of Caullingworth Insurance.

“The shortest distance, Justine. Point A to point B.”

“I hadn’t realized you were joining me,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth.

George leaned toward the girl behind the window. “We’d like a Dade’s Special cotton candy. Just one.” Then, over his shoulder, he asked me, “You don’t mind sharing, right?”

There didn’t seem to be a point as to whether or not I did.

He opened the bag when it came, and offered out the citrus-yellow fluff. “Funny us meeting here like this, isn’t it?” he said again.

I plucked a pinch of sugar and put it in my mouth. It dissolved instantly, nipping the sides of my tongue with tang.

In that moment, I was drawn back to my last carnival, walking with my older brother toward the Jumbo Whirl. I was fourteen, all gawk, with limp braids and plaid gaucho pants. I passed the merry-go-round, wistfully longing, watching a little humped man unhook the line to let people on—do they assign all hunchbacks to the merry-go-round?—while I followed my brother to his ride of choice, instead. I hated the Jumbo Whirl.

“I threw up. Twice,” I said.

George stopped chewing his bite of cotton candy and blinked.

“Last time I came to a carnival. Splattered my shoes and the high-tops of Josh Kramer, the basketball captain.”

“Oh.”

I reached for more candy.

“I’ve never even been to a carnival,” said George.

My hand paused. “Ever?”

He shook his head. “My dad warned me of the low-maintenance rides and high prices of poor-quality food.”

“He probably has a point.”

George nodded. He ate another bite of candy, and so did I. “This tastes delicious,” he said.

I had to agree. It may have been just sugar and air, but it was satisfying like a meal, and I felt stronger. Taller, somehow.

“I saw your car in the parking lot,” blurted George. “I recognized the patch of rust on your bumper. Plus, I have your license plate memorized.”

I didn’t even know my license numbers.

“It’s why I came in. I sat for a while, wondering what all the fuss was about, why so many people show up to these things that are built in a weekend on some empty corner lot, just to be pulled back down a few days later. Then I saw your car, and I suddenly wanted to see you.”

I took a moment to process. Then, I meant to reply with a generic, polite sort of acknowledgement, but what came out was, “I had to consciously restrain myself from grimacing when I saw you.”

George winced. “I’m not surprised.”

“You’re not?”

He shook his head, and looked off toward the Spider Swing.

Again, I tried to give one of my usual reassurances, the way I often tried to smooth uncomfortable situations. Instead, I said, “I have to sacrifice too much of my own self just to get along with you.”

He looked back at me, his dark eyes encircled by sad shadows. “I wish it didn’t have to be that way.”

“Me too,” I said.

He offered me more cotton candy. I took some. Then he gripped my hand and gently led me over fat, bunched electric cords, muddied popcorn kernels, and discarded corndog sticks. He drew me away from the crowd, and we ducked behind a faded port-a-potty.

“Justine,” he said, pressing close so that his breath danced a wisp of my hair across my cheek, “Would you let me kiss you?”

“You want to kiss me?”

He nodded, his gaze settling onto my mouth.

“Why?”

He pulled back a little, took in a deep breath. “Because you stopped wearing your denim skirt to the office, and you switched perfumes so I would stop sneezing, and, after all this time, you still try not to grimace at me when we talk.”

I considered. “Well, I’m not really attracted to you, but it’s been a long time since anyone asked to kiss me, so I’d like to at least remember what one is like.”

He smiled. He touched his fingertips to my cheek. Then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss was warm and dry, and tasted like lemon.

Just then, the port-a-potty lurched awkwardly, sending me off-balance and breaking the kiss. I clutched George’s arm to steady myself.

The potty door swung open. Out hobbled the humped little carnival worker. “Oh!” he said, looking up, askew. “Hello, again.”

I smiled, and glanced to George. His cheeks were blotchy with blush, but he was smiling too.

“How’s that Dade’s Special Lemon?” asked the man, nodding toward the bag in George’s hand.

“Delicious,” we both said.

“Good, good.” He rubbed his knobby hands together. “Well, back to work. You two ride the Jumbo Whirl yet?”

“Oh, no,” I said, holding up my hand. “I’m more of a merry-go-round girl.”

“Ah, that’s right,” said the man. “I remember.” He winked again. “See you in line.”

He lumbered off.

I looked back to George. We were both silent for a moment. “Well, I’m going ride something before I head home,” I said.

He nodded. “All right. I’m going to take off, myself. Got an early tee time in the morning.”

“I’ll see you Monday, then.”

He took a step back, and then paused. “Is this going to be awkward? Monday?”

I laughed. “Yes.”

He nodded again, smiling. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, gave a brief wave. Then he turned and headed for the parking lot.

I watched him for a few steps, my hand coming to rest on my mouth, remembering. Then I turned, too.

I got in line for the merry-go-round.

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