When I was sixteen,
I sold hot dogs at the beach
burnt lips, sandy shoes,
the air tasted like salt and mustard.

That’s where I met Louie.
He was twenty-six,
with long, dark curls
and jean shorts that looked like
they’d survived more than a few wrong turns.

He said hey like he already knew me.
That first day,he drove me home in his old blue van.
I remember the cracked dashboard,
windows that stuck halfway down,
seats that smelled like sun and cigarettes.

and mom said he was too old for me.

After that, he’d show up some afternoons,
leaning against the stand
like he had all the time in the world.
And maybe we did.

Later, I’d ride my bike a few blocks from home,
lean it against a telephone pole,
and climb into his van like a secret.
We’d hit bars where no one asked my age,
or walk the piers, me talking too much,
him smiling like he didn’t mind.

His house smelled like laundry and coffee.
Sometimes I’d sit on the edge of his bed,
watching him move through the kitchen
like he forgot I was too young
for this kind of real life.

but mom found out.

And I stopped showing up.
But for a while,
my friends said they saw him
driving slow through the neighborhood
like he was looking for me.

And even now,
on certain hot days,
when the sky turns that early-evening blue,
I think of him
how he looked at me
like summer would never end.