I'm selling snow balls and popcorn in a booth at the county fair. The sun is setting but heat still rises from the midway asphalt and reflects off the booth's metal awning. The breeze blows grit through the sliding glass window. I lean on my elbows and inhale the scent of farm animals and fry bread and red dogs. People meander toward the stadium to watch the fireworks show that will start as the last light drains from the sky.
I see a very young William Shatner strolling towards me as the midway empties of people. My heart starts to pound and an itch suddenly stings me in the crease between the top of my thigh and the puff of my labia.
He is wearing a white strap undershirt and low-slung blue jeans. I hear the soft clump of his engineer boots on the asphalt. He grins at me then rolls his shoulders and pumps his arms like a boxer. The wind tosses the wave of russet hair that falls across his forehead. A fat man approaches my booth.
"She's closed, mister," says Bill, moving in front of the man.
"My son wants some popcorn," says the fat man. He is holding the hand of a fat boy.
The fat man frowns. The fat boy's face crumples.
Bill reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a flattened pack of cigarettes. He smiles and shakes one out. "Here. Have a smoke instead."
After a moment's hesitation, the fat man takes the cigarette. Bill lights it with a silver Zippo. The fat boy starts to sniffle. The fat man yanks him away. "Shut up. She's closed," he says.
Bill flips a cigarette and catches it between his lips. He lights it with a flick of his Zippo, watching me the whole time. He blows out smoke from the corner of his mouth. There is chaff in his hair and black dirt under his nails. He jumps up and grips the metal awning with his fingertips. He pulls up twice then hangs there, gazing at me from the shadows of his eyelashes. The itch at the top of my thigh has become unbearable.
"Que quieres, Guillermo?" I ask softly.
He drops from the awning and dusts off his hands on the seat of his pants. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and cups it in his fingers. He leans close. He eyes travel over my face.
"Give me a blue snow ball, little girl," he says.
"I'm not a little girl," I say.
I retrieve a box of paper cones from the shelf above me because I know the action of lifting my arms will pull my cotton shirt tight across my breasts. I take my time making his treat. I spill a little of the electric blue syrup.
"Oops," I say, licking syrup from my finger. I take a bite before handing him the snow ball. I wait for his reaction.
He strokes his tongue across grooves my teeth made in the ice. "A little girl," he says. "That's what you are." He walks backwards away from my booth. A huge orange moon rises behind him.
"A little chocolate girl," he says.