We got to Shell World seven minutes before they closed. We searched for matching shells to remind us of each other while we’re miles apart. You meticulously picked out the most flawless sand dollar you could find. I picked the first one I saw that had brown marks and random cuts across its white exterior.
We were captivated by the giant suckers at the cash register. I got pina colada, you got root beer. We giggled, racing to the car as sand seeped in between our toes.
We spent the four hour drive home blaring country music and drinking diet cokes while we watched our suckers disappear, never knowing the symbolism of the sand dollars in the neon pink bag next to my flip flops.
My sand dollar is perched on top of my fridge, hidden from the one who I am hugging in the picture hanging from the University of Miami magnet. Yours is stuffed in the back of the bottom drawer of your coffee table, under all of the polaroids we used to take together.
You asked me the other night, after I called you after too martinis at a hotel bar, if there are moments I wanted to relive, just even for a second…
That’s the one.