Page 36 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I huff out a laugh just as a blur of motion barrels past me. One of the kids I recognize from the diner. Caramel is smeared across her face like war paint, sticky fingers already reaching for the next shiny stall with absolute, unapologetic intent.

“Got it!” she yells.

I track her without meaning to. Another kid—her twin, if I had to guess—chases after her, clutching something that might’ve once been a candy apple but is now mostly just evidence. He skids, nearly wipes out, then keeps going like gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule. Their laughter cuts through the noise, bright, unapologetic, completely unfiltered.

“Hey, no, come back here!”

Their mother appears a second later. Also familiar from the diner. She’s very pregnant and very outnumbered. Her arms are loaded with prizes—plastic, plush, things that light up and absolutely did not need to be purchased. She stops long enough to shift everything higher against her chest, already half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“If you drop that, you’re not getting another one!”

The little boy clutches what’s left of his treat tighter, his eyes wide and pleading. She shakes her head, but her face, split wide with love, laughter and joy gives her away. I lift the camera before I can overthink it. I aim.

Click.

A bell clangs somewhere to my left, loud enough to slice through everything else. I turn just in time to catch a teenage boy bringing the hammer down again, the impact rattling up through the stand and into the air around us. I can almost feel the energy coming off him. He’s wired and restless.

His girlfriend beams as if he just did something extraordinary, instead of just winning her a prize. She bounces on her toes and presses a loud, unapologetic kiss to his cheek. He grins, already handing her a giant teddy bear that’s almost as big as she is. She wraps her arms around it, laughing, the plush feet dragging through the dirt as she half-skips, half-struggles her way toward whatever catches her eye next. I bring the camera up again.

Click.

I gaze around. An older couple dances off to the side, just beyond the chaos. The way he looks at her makes it seem as if this is the first festival they’ve ever attended together, like fifty-ish years haven’t passed at all. They move slowly, stiffly, their joints not quite allowing for fluidity anymore, but there’s something in the way they hold each other that makes it irrelevant. Their energy could outshine half the teenagers here.

They’re out of sync, steps missing each other by inches. They’re dancing to a rhythm no one else can hear. They’re dancing to their song.

Something in my chest tightens; it’s piercing and unexpected. A gap I never thought needed filling and don’t want to ponder right now.

I lift the camera.

Click.

I walk through the rows of games. Snap a photo of the largest pumpkin I’ve ever seen. People form lines to jot down their guesses on the weight. Someone drops a tray of something fried and sugary on the way to a picnic table full of guys in their early twenties.

There’s immediate chaos and laughter. Shouts and insults flying as fast as the food hits the dirt. One of them scoops up a handful of donuts, lunging toward his friend, trying to shove them into his mouth while the others lose it around them. I don’t adjust the settings or check the light. I just lift the camera and click.

The motion is automatic. Pure instinct.

For the first time in months, I’m not thinking about whether it’s good or worth anything beyond the moment it captures. I’m not running it through the usual filter of whether it holds up against my previous work, whether it measures, whether it fails before I’ve even looked at it.

I just shoot. Something loosens behind my shoulder blades, and it’s weirdly freeing. I think about Dannica, and how her expression kept shifting like there was a whole conversation happening under the one she was actually having. I don’t know why that surfaces now. It doesn’t make sense. This place is full of people, full of moments, yet for some reason, that’s the one my brain lands on.

I exhale, dragging my focus away from thoughts that won’t serve me. I came here to stay away from distractions, and if there’s one thing my wandering thoughts have shown me, it’s that Dannica is a huge distraction I can’t afford. Of course, I keep thinking that and still get distracted. No wonder my work is failing. How do you capture clarity through a lens when your own mind feels blurred?

The smell of processed meat wafts through the crowd, and my mouth begins to water. Nothing like junk food to change my thought process. I stroll over to the hotdog stand and order one with sauerkraut and mustard. When was the last time I had something as simple as a hotdog? I can’t remember. While I wait, I gaze around. My brain automatically takes the images.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The jovial guy with a Zorro mask hands me my food, and I sit down at a table and eat the best hotdog I’ve had in my life. Crumpling the wrapper, I lob it into a nearby bin. Leaves rustle above me, and I look up to find a cheeky raccoon sitting perched halfway up a tree, eyeing the overflowing trashcan like it’s planning a heist. I huff out a quiet laugh, adjusting the lens and flicking the flash on to catch the detail.

“Don’t do it,” I mutter. “You don’t have the upper body strength for that kind of ambition.”

The raccoon doesn’t even look at me as he scuttles down the tree and gathers his spoils. My grin spreads fast and wide.

Click.