The Harlequin stands on his hands, his legs dangling above him as the children laugh in glee. Next he flings his legs around, propelling him full circle back onto his hands before tumbling into a disgruntled master, too dramatically for true life.

“Fool!” The master kicks him roughly as the Harlequin cartwheels away before bowing deeply, his legs in a shallow plié.
“Apologies, master!” The children laugh at his exadgerrated voice. He is tired of that jading laughter.

In walks the Columbina, the bust of her dress barely concealing that which it was made to hold. The Harlequin’s eyes bulge in awe and he rolls back over his head, the children laughing once more as the fool strikes again.
“She has captured – my heart!” The audience coos pitifully as the fool and the lady exchange an unseen glance.

For the Harlequin is not always fool. True life admits no idiots to theatre. He will have his Columbina, away from these prying eyes, in the dark of the caravan, where true life carries through.

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