carnival: sparrow/matt
There was something distantly familiar about the dirty carnival show, in the haze, the sour, half-sweet scent of crushed grass and dirt mingling with dozens of close, mostly male bodies waiting for the show.
Matt stood at the back, hands in his pockets, and he watched. Some of the men hooted at the girls when they sauntered out, gold glimmers, snatches of something they'd have to pay for, quicksilver pretty, but close enough to reach.
He didn't holler at anybody, and he stuck to the edge of the tent. Crowds like this had a way of making him feel at the edge of his own skin. But he spotted the too-blonde girl right away. She did stand out - not just one more painted face in a swaying crowd of dancers, not a pretty slip, but a real, genuine knockout. He had no way of knowing what he'd once appreciated in a woman aside from a friendly disposition, but he knew now that he was more inclined to women like the soft, generous girl with the blonde hair.
Something about the show tugged at the base of his brain, sprinkled pins and needles through dead neurons like a sleeping limb. No memories followed, just the almost comfortable sensation of missing something. It was like seeing a connection in front of his face, easy as a to b, and not being able to make it.
Then the show was over, and the barker started collecting, and Matt understood what this was all for, in a way he hadn't before he'd come. He didn't feel like he'd been taken, but it did adjust his expectations. Still, if she had just been looking for a customer, she certainly didn't need to fish from an online pool. Not based on the gaggle waiting for the barker to put his hat out, already palming their damp cash.
The barker pointed him in the right direction - back around to the trailers where the girls stayed. The carnival was winding down, but some people still had work to do, and the Sparrow's trailer wasn't the only one flush with light.
It was cold already, but not cold enough for a hard frost, no crunch to the grass underfoot yet. When he found the trailer, it seemed obvious that it was hers. Someone so preoccupied with cold and endless winter would be smart enough to stock up on fake flowers, wouldn't they?
He stepped up into the trailer without knocking. The inside struck him as completely different from other trailers he'd been. Clean, for one, and the feminine touches everywhere did make it seem more like a cottage somewhere than a trailer at a carnival. She looked a little like a doll sitting on the bed like that, waiting for whomever might walk in the door in her robe and curly blonde hair. He was tall enough that he had to bow his head a little to get inside.
The music, the warm smell of the room, and the smoke and sting of a gas heater all reinforced that feeling he'd had in the carnival tent. This little trailer felt like something out of time, on its own. He'd done a good job in this town of becoming as much like it as possible, blending with the wallpaper while he waited for something to change. This room, and the girl in it, made that harder than it had been in a while.
He wore a long-sleeved work shirt under a denim jacket, battered jeans washed that morning to clean them of the smell of his work and the musty house in the woods. Gloves, as well, though the weather didn't quite call for them. His hair was long, enough to make him less approachable on main street. He carried the smell of the night outside in with him, sweat on cold skin, wet air ready for rain, leaves just starting to molder on the ground.
He didn't mind being alone. He could manage it fine. "Sparrow," he said, almost a greeting. He pulled the door behind him halfway closed, ajar enough to let the night air and the sounds outside trickle in. Then he moved toward the bed, past the white counters, the white table, the white walls.
"You never said what kind of dancing." An quiet observation, and almost, almost a joke. There was hardly an innocent in this room.