They Can't Tear Down Our Love

Laughter bubbled out from her lips. She skipped excitedly down the road. Her hand pulled me along. My feet clumsily trod along as I ran to keep up. I glanced over at her, my childlike grin matching hers. I could already see the top of the Ferris wheel; hear the echoes of children's laughter--or maybe that was just our own; smell the fried dough--practically taste it on my tongue.

We turned the corner.

We stumbled to a stop. Our smiles melted away.

The chain-link fence was locked. A padlock the size of my hand held the bars together. Behind it squealed the rusty remnant of a merry-go-round. A bird's nest perched atop one of the tents; stuffed prizes still hung from its weathered tarpaulin cover. Dust covered everything, and the bristly bushes had encroached upon the metal skeletons of the Fair.

She squeezed my hand. I tore myself away from the desolate scene in front of us and gazed down at her, apology ready on my lips. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had no idea.

"It's okay," she said with a kiss.