He was my first boyfriend. I was 11. I remember the sticky summer days, being bored of scratching mosquito bites. I was itching for something bigger, although I didn’t know what that something was.

He was 12. His family stayed at the same hotel on Miami Beach as mine did. Our families had known each other for years. He was part of my history, as inextricable as sand. That hard to get out of my shoes and hair.

It was July. I remember it was a sweltering day. I was wearing my pink bikini. It was neon colored, of course, it being 1989. My once poker-straight hair was beginning to curl of its own volition. I remember struggling in front of the mirror that morning, wanting to look pretty. My hair defied my wishes, rebelling in triumphant corkscrews.

He came up to me as I sat reading by the pool. He asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend. I said OK.

Our relationship only lasted 5 hours. I broke it off, claiming I just wanted to be friends. His family moved away that summer. We never saw each other again.