Smoke curls around the cigarette as you lean over the stone parapet. The boisterous parade thumps below, bodies slick with sweat and paint. Dancers and contortionists, performers and clowns. Afternoon heat rising. You wave, then laugh at some indistinct comment, leaning out even more.
I fixate on the crack in the stonework, imagining it fissuring under you, giving way suddenly. And you falling, your mouth a silent o of surprise, your body trampled under masses of dancing feet. Then you turn around and catch my eye. A low chuckle escapes you. I shiver. The joke, after all, is on me.
