I’m a liar, he offered on our first date, as we trudged hand in hand through sliding sand on Alameda Beach. Naked toddlers squatted over half-dug holes, wielding plastic shovels. Teenagers played frisbee and wrote their true loves’ names in wet sepia with a stick. Easily done, easily erased. The sun lay a lascivious tongue along the blond hairs of my arm and burned our cheeks a deeper red. Aging children, that’s all anyone is. But you gotta love us. There’s no one else to love. So I didn’t believe him. I lied to myself that he’d be faithful, when clearly his gaze was already turning some other way. It’s just that today, in the hot stillness of late summer, the breeze comes up and caresses me as softly as it did when I was a girl. Then my skin remembers the touch of his warm skin and his eager, silky penis, which, in its own way, was always honest.