He sat there like a junkie, pulling slivers of wood from the picnic table with the teeth of his car keys. Every minute that ticked off some invisible clock seemed to him like another crack from the lion tamer’s whip. He rubbed his eyes and tried to block the calliope music from sending him off the deep end.
He tried to list the reasons why he hated her. How many promises had been broken? How many trusts stubbed like awkward toes? How many nights left cold and outside while she pandered to the crowds?
But who would ever understand him the way that she did? Who but the Bearded Lady could love the Stunted Pinhead?
So he sat there waiting for her to return. But would she?
– John Hooker