I met her in the summer before 11th grade. She smelled like lemon and pencil shavings. She was the color yellow. I remember working the register down at the beach shack in Dennis and her walking up. Her hair was loose in cinnamon bun curls falling out behind her ears. Sand made her hair look like streaks of blonde. The way she talked to me made me smile. Hands raised as if directing an orchestra while ordering onion rings with a side. A side of pickles, she liked pickles but only the sour ones, made sure I knew that horseradish was the best. I laughed and her cheeks turned a darker shade of red than her original electric burn. I didn’t know her name, but I knew her reflection and I knew her colors. 

The first time I saw you I never thought I’d see you again. I never thought what could be because what could be had always been crushed. Compressed into burnt skin and cut hair. Cigarettes and lemon seeds. But I did see you; again and again. Everyday you would be at the stand, novel in hand. Today you were reading Misery by Stephen King. Your eyes gliding across the page as if you were trying to grasp the plot before it ran away. You were a silent angel. I knew nothing of you but that we shared the same air. I remember asking you about Stephen King and your eyes growing wide because you were acknowledged. Mystery girl spoke. And when she opened her mouth it did not close. She went on to tell me about how he was the most unappreciated author of our time, adamant about the assumed cliché of his work but how it was so psychologically pivoting. I watched her walk away. 

That summer night I sat on the beach. My thick black hair tangled into large knots from months without a comb. I felt like this was supposed to be a moment. The kids I was with were all holding hands and diving into the water. The feelings of being black-out drunk and collapsing on the sand. The lack of memories but the momentous amount of feelings. You came and sat next to me. Jeans caked with sand and lips glossy. You leaned back and took my hand.

“You look down too much,” she told me. 

“Is that so?” I asked.

“You need to stop worrying about the world hurting you from underneath, look up, you have one life.” 

I leaned back into a mass of gray clouds feeling her shoulder against mine. Hair prickling up and brushing against one another. Anna, you made me feel loved but I can't be loved. 

The next day I had my bags packed. Plastic blue crates filled with bras and tampons and t-shirts. Aux plugged into the stereo playing Apollo XXI. Green converse to the pedal - I was gone. As the dunes passed in the rearview I felt a sense of freedom. A sense of clarity because I was moving further away from you.