I. 

In the spring of 2001, we loved a friend so deeply they told us it was wrong. Unnatural. They yelled from behind God, screamed beneath the Republic, and for a time, we couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Hidden, they told us: “We hold this truth to be self-evident, that all men are created heterosexual.”  

They said this as surely as the sun sets over the Pacific.  

But tell that to a butterscotch moon watercolored to the ether—he’ll greet you as he pleases.  

II. 

When we see that moon now, the one low in the sky burnt brilliant by an absent sun, we think of Biarritz, the Atlantic, the yellow Frisbee. 

III. 

It would be unfair to say that some things are just perfect. Some things become perfect. They align, like our special moon, and when that happens, we know all of our names. Every one. That night we were Stevie Nicks “Edge of Seventeen.” That night we played a game of Frisbee. 

We formed a triangle on the beach, and though our base was narrow, the tour guide extended our height, out, out until he was just an idea. Tossing the disc to him, we felt impossibly adult. We had somehow managed to find the Frisbee in a tiny shop in the south of France and bought it with money painted in amazing technicolor. All our money back home seemed so pedestrian in comparison. Green. 

On the beach, we tossed our treasure to the guide gently but forcefully enough to find its target. 

The guide threw back, uncertain. He had stumbled into an opposite reality; he was getting younger. We could tell he was unsure of himself. Later, we’ll realize that though he’d sneak to us during lulls and teach us about Richard III and Umberto Eco, he was probably only twenty-four or so. We thought he could have been our father. We’ll forgive ourselves because we didn’t judge. We might have been wrong, but we read The Name of the Rose as soon as we returned home. 

We would, absurdly, sign the Frisbee and give it to him on our last day.  

He would cry despite himself. 

IV. 

As the night settled in and our audience of stars took their seats, the Frisbee hid from us in its flight, and a new game began. 

After our friend clutched the last throw from the air, we took his hand. Unafraid. Unencumbered by doubt. We said, “Stop. Don’t do anything.” We had an idea. We leaned in close to his ear, too close, but maybe not because our lips did not find purchase. We said, “Give it to me and walk away.” He faced us, confused. “You pretend,” we said, taking the Frisbee from his hand. “On my count.” 

He smiled at us, and we were afraid it was powerful enough to shed light on our plan.  

On three, the boy next to us threw a Frisbee that wasn’t there. A second later, we let loose the real thing. Time slowed as we waited for a reaction. The man in charge of our European well-being cursed into the evening. Contact!  

And then, a yellow blur, right at our chest and caught in the nick of time. Instinctively, we threw back without pausing, without hesitation. Everything aligned and— 

“Fuck!” 

We laughed with the boy next to us. Doubled over. The joy consumed us so intensely that we held onto one another. The Frisbee rolled to our ankles. A paltry attempt. The boy picked it up. We yelled, “Aim for the head!”  

A British-accented “shit” echoed on the other side of the beach because he’d heard us. And then a second one because it flew true. Bulls-eye. The boy was better at this game than us. Always had been. The game went on like that for twenty minutes, a fever pitch of movement and agility. When the tour guide got us good in the gut, he decided to call it a night. The final say. But he’d earned it. 

“That was awesome,” he said, winded but happy.  

V. 

We didn’t leave the beach then however. How could we? The night’s youth was infectious. The three of us took a seat on a dune, listened to the waves, and watched the stars. We hoped to catch some hurtling toward us like the Frisbee, maybe steal a kiss.  

Neither happened.  

And in our merriment, we somehow failed to notice the sun had set over the Atlantic. 

D. M. Dunn currently lives in the Midwest, where he writes for fun and runs a nonprofit dedicated to animal welfare for serious.