Lauren Suval

Today’s the day her first love gets married.

The fireworks explode over the dark water that night as the cold sand buries her ankles. Jessie’s grandmother calls out from their cottage, mumbling something about needing a blanket.

When we love without expecting anything back, we try. At least we try; there’s always that.

They’re in close proximity, but they never touch. Once their fingers brush against one another; once skin makes contact, it becomes real. And when it becomes real, it’s over.

“Well, according to Ray Bradbury, 3 am is when the soul is the most vulnerable.”

Certain memories unhinge a particular power; a vehicle for feeling something in your bones that you previously felt a long time ago.

Growing up, summer meant that school was out, and all I really cared to do was pretend that I was a version of Britney Spears, strolling along Rockaway beach, singing the words to “Sometimes,” while envisioning my life as a pop star.

He is sitting outside the local bagel café, reading the Village Voice, while casually lifting the blonde strands of hair away from his eyes.