Don't Stop Now by Julie Halpern Page A

way things are. “Eh” is what Josh is all about right now. About his future, about us…I stomp my way through the doors.
    Inside the Corn Palace are photos dating back to the early twentieth century from each year the Corn Palace was decorated. New designs are created yearly, painstakingly glued by hand to the building, truly putting the Mars’ Cheese Castle to shame. I decide to buy some caramel corn from a stand inside the Palace, and as expected, it’s the tastiest caramel corn I’ve ever had.
    â€œThe Mitchell Corn Palace delivers,” I say through a mouthful of crispy, sweet, melty goodness. We buy a couple Corn Palace T-shirts from a small gift stand, take one last look at the history of corn display, and step outside to find a less corny dinner.
    Across the street from the Corn Palace is a burger restaurant with an order window and benches outside for people-watching. We order a couple of cheeseburgers and fries, and park ourselves on a bench right on the main street. The town’s not too busy, but there are enough people trying to take pictures that incorporate their family members and the entire Corn Palace that we are entertained for the duration of our meal.
    When I can’t stand the heat any longer, I declare, “It’s time for the Enchanted World Doll Museum!”
    â€œNooooo!” Josh fake cries.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll protect you.” I stand up from the bench, and this time he takes my hand. We’re so hot and sticky, I wonder if we’ll ever be able to separate our hands again.
    The doll museum is freakishly quiet inside, which would be awkward if we weren’t the only people there. The lady at the entry desk (which is also the cash register for the gift shop) gives us a look that says don’t touch anything, and directs us toward the turnstile that leads into the museum. Once we’re through the museum door, Josh stands close behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach, digging his chin into my neck. I don’t say anything, but it feels so good to be enveloped by him like this. I can smell his sweat, or maybe it’s mine, but it’s not ripe or unappealing. Maybe it’s those pheromones we learned about in health class. Women are attracted to the manliness of sweat and all that.
    We walk slowly, combined, and marvel at the doll scenes. Unlike other doll museums I’ve visited where you just see a doll in its pristine form, displayed as a doll , these dolls are intermingled with dolls of different ages and sizes and conditions, creating stories and scenes and, dare I say, interacting. In one case, a group of dolls anticipate the breaking of a piñata. Another lovingly offers us a glimpse at a doll wedding. In one, titled “Sunday Morning Service,” corroding dolls dressed up in religious gear patiently await a sermon from a tiny pastor.
    â€œThis is the greatest place on earth,” I muse. Huge dolls gallivant with miniscule ones, something my dolls would never do. Dolls with big glass eyes hang out with dolls whose eyes were merely applied with paint. Some dolls wear shoes, others go barefoot. It’s a revolutionary dolly revelation! I’m sad when we get to the end of the displays and are released, once again, into the gift shop. I purchase a stack of postcards containing images of numerous doll dioramas, my favorite called “Saturday Night at the Rooming House,” where various dolls of mismatched sizes wait patiently outside of a bathroom door while a fat, naked porcelain doll preens himself inside. Genius.
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    Outside of the doll museum, the setting sun glints off the Corn Palace flagpoles. “What do you want to do now?” I ask Josh dreamily in this almost surreal setting. It’s only around eight o’clock, so if we checked into a hotel now, we’d have to think of ways to pass the time. But the town of Mitchell is closing up shop. I’m starting to envision me