The last days of summer found me at the fair. The great thing about this carnival of sights and sounds is that it is the same every year: You always know what to expect. The worst thing about this sweaty, deep-fat-fried, eye-squinting experience is that it is the same every stinkin' year, and there are no surprises. Or are there...?
One slippery, sun-slathered day, at the end of August, I found myself at the fair gates. I approached the ticket stand and asked for two. The woman, in her world-weary voice, hissed at me. She actually hissed.
I paused to stare, thinking I had perhaps imagined things. Again I said, "Two tickets, please."
She wrinkled up her stubby nose and swiped at me with her over-long fingernails, that were slightly curved and each sharpened to a point.
Now it was personal. "Look," I said, "I just want two tickets."
She stared at me with two beady eyes and then I smelled it. Cat breath. "Um, is that tuna you're eating?"
She stretched her arms out to into the sun, then climbed up onto the counter inside of her stand, and curled up into a ball.
By now, the line behind me was growing quite long, and I was a little more than weirded out. "Kitty?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
Like all felines, the cat-of-a-woman ignored me, yawned, and rested her head on her arm.
Then I realized something: She was wearing a collar, and she was not a woman but an actual snow-white Persian with whiskers and a long, poofy tail.
It must have been a trick of the light.
^Write about the end of your summer.