The Tattooed Stranger at the Fairground

The Tattooed Stranger at the Fairground

He stood by the ghost train,

sleeves rolled high,

ink curling up his arms

like it wanted to speak

I’d gone for chips

and maybe a laugh,

but he looked at me

like I was already late

He flicked his lighter once,

twice,

then held it to a roll-up

like lighting fire was just habit

No hello,

no name,

just a look

that pinned me in place

We walked the stalls,

shoulder to shoulder,

never touched,

but I felt him in my bones

He guessed my star sign right,

stole a toffee apple

from a kid who never noticed,

and grinned like a man

who had never paid for anything twice

I should’ve gone home

when the music cut out,

but he said

Waltzer’s still open

and that was enough

He held the bar with one hand,

held my gaze with the other,

and when the ride spun,

I forgot my own name

I never saw him again,

no shock there,

but sometimes

when I catch the scent of petrol and sugar,

my stomach flips

like it did that night

He was just a passing stranger at the fair

who had taken me for a ride.