I’m parked outside your house.

The sun spills into my open windows, baking the black interior of the car. A slight breeze stirrs the trees that line both sides of the street. Lawns are yellow with dandilions. Sprinklers are running.

I pick up my cell phone off of the passenger’s seat and it’s hot to the touch. Rattle off your number. In the upstairs window, I can see you reach for the phone.

“Hello?” you say.

“Hey. What are you doing right now?”

You hesitate and my heart sinks.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I’ve sort of got this thing to do later…”

I can take a hint.

“Okay,” I say, trying not to let dissappointment register in my voice. “I’ll see you later then.”

Hang up. Start the car. Go. Go. Go.

Oh, it’s summer again – our time of breaking and beginning, of growing up and growing down. The time we take to learn how to be little kids again. Of late night beach excursions and bonfires and skinned knees. Our time of falling in love, and falling apart.

Hellos and goodbyes.