We danced until the sun went down, until it fell from the sky and dropped behind the cardboard cut-outs of beach bungalows. One minute, its red-hot wheel rolled over our heads, spitting molten gold, and the next—it was gone. Just like that, thick ink spilled over the seaside town and painted us in darkness. Above the patio deck, night lights went on, ripe honeydew and orange. Bugs, zipping around lightbulbs, buzzed and burned against their luminescent orbs. Your lips tasted like sea salt and cherry soda, and I wish I could say that everything went as planned, and no one got hurt, but that would be a lie. We danced. Scorched wings and broken carapace shells crunched under our shoes.