The fair’s sky-ride drifts overhead like silent exclamation marks, two kids in the last chair kicking dusk out of their sneakers. Below, the Mustard Midway Café crackles to life, neon hot dogs glowing golden, fryer oil gossiping in quick sizzles.
A teenage catcher in a #7 jersey crouches by the curb, bargaining for fries while his older sister counts loose quarters; their mom waves a ketchup packet like a referee. At the counter, first-date nerves order a single corn dog with two napkins, pretending their hands didn’t touch. The man in the pink blazer samples a nacho, approves, and tips his hat to nobody in particular. Over everything, the sunset pours peach and honey, and for a minute the whole midway smells like possibility and salt.
