After we graduated, you couldn’t understand why I wasn’t applying to jobs in big cities. You had never had a summer job that wasn’t an internship your dad had gotten you, but this would be my fifth year working at the oceanfront parking lot. That summer you interned for a car company, you worked inside in an office during the days and in the evenings you’d message me from inside your apartment, begging for Snapchat nudes. They’re impermanent, you’d say, they’ll disappear, come on. But I loved saying no as much as I loved my summer job. I loved sitting in a beach chair in a sea of hot asphalt, the rising air shimmering around me. I loved that punch-drunk haze from getting too much sun. I loved that this wasn’t a nice beach. I loved the leathered skin, the smell of sweat and sunscreen, the sagging of stretched-out bathing suits. The big, loud, lifted trucks and the skinny guys in white Oakleys and Monster logo tattoos. I loved that my coworker was in a buzzy band and that girls would come see him during our shift and they’d make out in his yellow Mustang. I hated that you worked for Ford.


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