The smell of damp canvas and worn dirt fills the air. Not the wormy-dirt smell of a freshly turned garden soil. The dusty, almost leathery smell of dirt packed down repeatedly until it’s velvety. Tiny little flecks dance merrily across the beams of evening light through eyelets at the seams of the round walls.

The two smells intertwine with ripe body odor—the kind that jumps off too many people sitting too close together on a hot evening—making the massive tent feel overused. Nonetheless, the sweet punch of cotton candy overcomes them and my tongue swells with saliva.

The tiny flecks of dancing dust mimic the merriment in the big top. Giggling and squeals fill the air as families find a seat in the stands. The lights are down to warn us that the show is about to begin. I stare at the inside of the roof through the relative darkness and wonder how red and yellow came to represent the circus. Bright, bold, daring. Excitement. Fearlessness. Joy.

This is how I imagine a circus in my mind. I’ve never actually been to one. I’m sitting across from Sarah Kirkpatrick at Café M on East Kagy with my head dropped to one side, and I’m sure, with a stupid look on my face.