Ferris Wheels (click for more text) Revolving text Site map	It's the Taste of Colorado--and I have dragged you here. My yearly ritual. Denver opens summer with the crowded, rock-thrumming craft booths of the People's Fair, ends it with these sticky asphalt, cotton candy, carny crowds. We have escaped the noise of the KBPI radio booth on Colfax, set up on the Courthouse steps where I got my divorce about two years ago. A booth advertising buffalo gyros and green pepper salsa covers the step where I stood and cried for four and half hours. We wander around the raucous, overpriced food booths that are trampling the pines and marvel that the intricate flower gardens between the courthouse and the capitol are still intact. We pass in front of the shallow pool where I ran into you a little less than a year ago. I was watching the kids try to ride the blue brass dolphins and you were biking wildly, trying to get out of the crush of downtown cars and people. You thought you could take a shortcut through Civic Park onto the Platte bikeway. You missed the road and we collided. I knocked off your glasses, recognized you from college. We forgot our other plans and went off to the Walnut Cafe for coffee. And talked all night. Now we have had too many dates to count. You hold my hand and whisper in my ear, deftly avoiding the kid in the baggy pants and skull-capped skateboard. You want a commitment, you say, your hands nuzzling under my hair. I shiver under the warmth of your fingers. Look, a ferris wheel, I say. Let's go.
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