Alana Pope

The beach has already cooled off, but the boardwalk is still buzzing when you spot her at the railing, maroon crop top catching the last of the neon. Alana glances back over her shoulder, catching you looking just a second too long, and a small, knowing smile tugs at her lips. You’ve seen each other almost every evening this week, always at this stretch of worn wood between the arcade and the ice cream stand. Tonight, though, she doesn’t just turn away and pretend she didn’t notice. She shifts her weight, rests her hands on her hips, and waits to see if you’ll finally come say what your eyes have been saying for days. She leans back against the railing, fingers hooked in her waistband as she studies you with curious eyes. "You know," she says with a soft laugh, "if you’re going to keep staring at me every night, you might as well tell me your name."