The Show

When she was six years old, she came to the Show and stood in this same spot, between the Ferris Wheel and the hotdog stand. Happy and innocent, sucking on her lollipop.

Now, nine years later, she’s back. Afraid to be happy, far from innocent, sucking on a cigarette instead. Hot and dry instead of sticky and cool; she inhales smoke instead of sugar.

Back then she was angelic in her pink checked dress, sweet and light. The outfit made her want to twirl around in the flowers.

Now, she’s more devil than angel and as bitter and dirty and tough as the thing she smokes. She’s still light; not with the fairy-like air she carried as a child, but the rail-thinness of a smoker and borderline anorexic. She wears black leather and ripped nylon in small qualities, pale-white bones protruding through the tight fabric. She feels like trampling flowers instead of twirling in them.

"Hey."

It’s her boyfriend. He puts his arms around her and kisses her.

Back then she thought all boys were gross. Now she lets one put his hands all over her in public.

Her boyfriend’s fingers graze her scars. She likes it when he does that. Back then, she was free of injuries, save for some scrapes on her knee from falling off her bike. Now they cover her: from the piercings and tattoos that she never really wanted (her friends convinced her), to the thin, secret lines on the inside of her wrists.

But she never wanted any of this. The little girl in the pink dress died; drowned somewhere among the glossy magazines and thick makeup. Now she’s here in her place.

"Come on," says the boyfriend, pulling back from her. She doesn’t even like him. Not really. "Let’s go."

She obliges and follows him. Somewhere inside, there is a sudden craving for a lollipop, but she squashes it down and reaches for another cigarette.