I remember the lights, green and pink and yellow, and your dress, and the smell of fried meat and French fries. I remember a song, played on an organ, a few hundred feet from where we stood. I remember how your lipstick had smeared on the can of beer you held in your hand. I remember needing to burp, swaying slightly in the breeze. I remember saying that we would never be this young ever again. I remember you not caring. I remember the kid who was throwing up behind you. I remember how he looked fourteen, but had already learnt to vomit in an adult way. I remember thinking that I did not want to live in this place forever, but knowing that if I left, I would leave you. I remember trying to keep my eyes focused while you told me about your parents. I remember looking at the pier, and the sea, with my shoulder pressed to yours. I remember not putting my arm around your neck. I remember how stupid I thought your hair looked, and how I thought you earrings were to big. I remember imagining what you would be like as a person who was more like me. I remember picturing you in no make up, with a black turtleneck sweater, corduroy pants, black frame spectacles. I remember what you said about your perfect man. I remember that I fit only one of the criteria (height), and came close in another (eye colouration). I remember the delicate way that you had of slurring your words. I remember your apathy towards the three P’s, politics, politeness and precision. I remember finally burping, and you laughing, and you burping back. I remember the taste (I never did get used to it). I remember saying goodbye, afraid that by staying longer I might dilute the feeling that I had. I remember the awkward way you hugged me, with one arm, on account of your beer, and the way our chests only half met. I remember the smell of your hair clinging to my nostrils as I walked away, and I remember trying to clear you out of my nose, taking long, deep breaths of the salted night air.