Summer is another person. She’s tall but never overbearing. She winks at me when she passes by completely. But when we’re together, time feels slow, almost too slow. A slowness of longing like when she drove me through the thickets of Big Sur, listening to Belle & Sebastian. Highway One is the only redeemable aspect of California, Summer said, waving at the elephant seals. I checked our itinerary. I used to be nervous about making plans. The boardwalk will be closed by the time we reach Santa Cruz, I said, but she ignored me. Summer passes by slowly but before long, the winding roads come to an end. We were naive back then, but a naiveté that never equated to ignorance, only inexperience. She’d buckle in my stuffed animals––a cocker spaniel named Olive and Daffodil the moo-cow––into the backseat. Now we listen to the same songs in different cars, and I stand in the fog-filled streets of Carmel-by-the-sea late-autumn slightly ashamed to dine at an overpriced restaurant in overalls. I once told Summer I wanted to live somewhere that ends in by-the-sea. I remember Summer doesn’t have a home. She always returns as someone else. I eat there anyway. Without any reservation.