Jon looked at me. "Let's go on a few rides before eating," he suggested.
"Well . . . are you sure?" I asked.
"Yeh!! Come on… it's your big night."
I looked at the vast array of neon lights which blinked invitingly, trying to decide what to ride first. None of the rides were particularly ferocious in my opinion, but I settled for the tilt-a-whirl, a ride which afforded a small thrill. We seated ourselves inside the semi-circular capsule and the fun began, flailing us clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as the capsule raged up and down on its track. It was no generous ride; such carnivals rarely endow its patrons with their money's worth. The machine grated and clanked to a halt.
After exiting I glanced at Jon, who appeared rather stricken by the glassy gaze in his eyes. He also burped repeatedly, suggesting his stomach had protested to the ride.
I almost hated to ask, "You OK?"
"I'll be all right. . . let's just sit down for awhile."
We walked to his car and leaned on the hatchback. Several minutes passed and Jon returned to normal.
"Let's go and eat…" I urged, having no desire to witness a repeat of nausea.
"No, no… it's your night. I want you to have fun. I'm OK, really."