[By the time she finds them, frost has settled on the sugar and started to melt it, and she has to lick it of her fingers as she gathers them up, the colors staining her skin. She takes them back home and lines them up on the edge of her dresser (the one pushed as far into a corner of her room as it'll go, the bed kitty-corner from it). She feels the itch to record them on the wall in a blank space next to the dresser, but she just sits on her bed, back into the corner, and stares at them for a while. She wants to run out to the carnival to see him, but she doesn't know how to go about it. She doesn't look quite the same, and she knows it.
And she doesn't know how to bridge that space between them. She feels steady enough to do it, if she can figure out how. So she tries to think of something else to give him.
Tacos don't travel well, but tamales do, and she searches online for the best tamales in the city, calling up and placing an order to be delivered to the carnival for him. They arrive just before the evening shows, and have been kept warm on the drive, masa fresh and sweet and the meat inside spicy and slow-cooked until it's tender enough to fall apart. There's a dozen of them, each wrapped in corn husks and plastic wrap for the journey. The delivery driver insists the tip is taken care of before making his way back to the car for the long trip back to the restaurant.]