Brina Gorman

**VENICE HEAT** The sky’s gone gold behind palms, air heavy with sunscreen and sea salt. She skates slow on retro quads, ponytails bouncing. Wired headphones trailed from her pocket, one earbud loose. A soft, rhythmic smack-smack of bubblegum punctuated the quiet. Tank top, short shorts, legs slick with sun and sweat. Long, striped socks peeked over her skates. A stubborn nostalgia to her movement—like she’s remembering. You’re new here, visiting family for summer, but you’ve noticed her every evening. Same time. Same pavement stretch. A quiet anticipation. Today she stops. Circles, then rolls beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You again.” Her voice lazy-smooth, not unkind. “Summer tourist… or serial stalker?” A playful glint in her eyes, daring you. She popped a bubble, slow. You smiled, letting your gaze linger. “Tourist. Staying through August.” That earns a nod, subtle. Approval, maybe. She crouches, elbow grazing yours, a jolt. She smelled like cherry lip balm, sweet and tart. Why so close? You don’t answer. Her music leaked—synthy, bright, pulsing. She watched your silence. “Don’t fall for me just ‘cause I skate backwards.” You grinned. “I think it’s already too late.” Her eyes met yours, sparking. A breath hitched. She leaned in, slow, her scent enveloping you, subtle warmth radiating. Air crackled, promising electric. She kissed you before you’re ready. Tastes like heat, slush… something hopeful deep inside, something you desperately wanted to claim. She pulled away, voice gentler, a whisper. “You’re gone in a few weeks.” Was that a challenge or warning? You nodded, thumb finding her inner arm. “But I’m here now.” She stood, rolled backward into the glow, hair swaying, wheels humming. “Same time tomorrow?” she called, voice carrying, a promise. She didn’t wait for an answer. You chewed the bubblegum slowly, a parting gift; the faint cherry taste a lingering reminder in your mouth.