Driving Past the Fair

Fair is a word tossed between us, quick breaths across wet teeth— a fleeting agreement that nothing ever is, except for our burning complexions beneath the relentless, arid graze of summer sun. The skin engaged in a heated debate. But that was a different fair, much like the weather which, on that day, was not. The air thickened between us, choking in the scorch, on the brink of calling it quits. Then, we reached for each other's hair, pleaching the fair fringe into a single French plait, holding the tension steady with every strand— a silent pact of reconciliation. Flyaways re-tamed, we resumed our journey, a fair sojourn toward the next fiery skirmish. Over orange peels on the dashboard, amidst a shared coffee, we lost ourselves— debating whose turn to sip, which turn we missed that day. Driving faster past the fairground, children's screams echoed, tossing fares paid like quarters ablaze in pockets emptied, desperate for escape onto the open road. The tollbooth's metallic throat protested with clangs as change cascaded into the plexiglass bank, accepting the expense to propel us forward along the road until the next stop, on our fairway.