July

The sound of ice crushing against the metal of the machine. An almost pungent smell of the artificial syrup soaked into the fine, crisp ice, freshly scooped up from the shaved ice maker with too much enthusiasm. The Fourth of July firework is somewhere lost among the 2010’s pop playlist.

We walk alongside the coast. A gush of wind is constantly following.

Do you know the way?

No.

A hand zooming in over the Google Maps pin. Sauntering steps. The lights of the tunnel hang gently, a calming glow, even though it’s the middle of the day.

The shrubs bloomed this summer, their tentacles reaching out into the pedestrians. Sneakers bounce by the extending vines and the faint smell of music hangs in the air—the frat house from across the street is still full of life.

You tugged at my hand.

The crossroad sign changed. We walked with an inexhaustible lightness despite the sultry air.

The cashier smiled. You glanced at the menu one too many times. I peeked towards where you were looking. Mango? Strawberries? Am I feeling tropical or creamy?

Flip a coin, I dug a bronze penny out of my pocket and tossed it high into the air.

Almost flippantly, the buzz blazed through the peace. A delightful color appeared slowly, first a pale pink, then a more vibrant hue of dreamy yellow (from the mango?) overtook it.

You slide the straw in mine before handing it to me, along with yours.

It tasted like how it looked, like summer.

On the way back, you started sprinting.

I wanted to ask you to stop. To wait for me. But my legs, they had a life of their own.

I ran like a child, my hands cold from holding onto the smoothie.

I saw the red of the sunset from the window across my desk in my room. The sun illuminated my eyes. An urge to run channeled inside me. I grabbed my keys and sprinted towards the light, on a sandy, muddy trail. My footprints are etched into the brown textures, my lungs expanding like there are no limits. Running is hard but this feels easy.

The swing we found on the meandering path off to the side of the riviera of the lagoon is not really a swing, it’s a single tree branch with a rope tied down the middle hanging up to the overgrown tree above it. Climbing onto the swing is an art of its own: you should swing a leg up on the branch, hold on tightly to the rope, and pull the weight of your body up before carefully sitting in the middle of the branch, hoping that you're not too heavy for the tree. If you propel yourself forward on the swing and lean your neck out, you could catch a peak of the sunset cascading on the lagoon for a second, before gravity takes control again.

On the last day, we walked down the beach again, way past the time when we could be there. The sunset was gentle at first, a rosy pink hue flickering over the waterfront. The waves were large and clashed with the sand rhythmically. I took off my socks and stuffed them in my shoes and ran into the water, for the first time this summer.

In retrospect, I couldn’t remember much about it except for running along the shores of the water and erupting in laughter. We were stained with the scent of sea salt and we carried our shoes, walking barefoot up to that little path we discovered the time we got lost in the labyrinth past the Aloha bench. Looking back at the shaky, chaotic videos, I only just noticed how much we giggled and shrieked and ran until we were both out of breath.