Geologists say that in ten years, Florida’s coastlines will be underwater.Oceanfront properties will drown in the wake of global warming,and still, mansions sprout up, fungus clustered on the dunes.Large bay windows at constant war with salt grime.Bowl of fake lemons on the marble countertop,pop of sunshine yellow greeting the snowbirdswhen they arrive for winter. The restof the year, the nests are empty, hauntedonly by housekeepers and gardeners.We’d cruise slowly up Siesta Drive,smoking joints, turning into drivewayswith no gates, rolling the windows downto get a better view of fountain statues,birds of paradise, vaulted entryways. She neverworried about getting into trouble, plucked orangesfrom their trees and called it a favor, less rotting on the ground,better us than the ants and rats. That summer wasa pinwheel spinning too fast, and we were dizzywith teenage desires. Twin galaxies drifting lightlytoward our centers of collapse. We’d goback to our neighborhood, inland, late andsmelling like smoke, my parents askingthe unanswerable question of whereI’d been, who I’d been with.When they forbid mefrom speakingto her,it onlymade us morereckless, desperatefor places to be alone, to be ourselves.So, when we finally tried the front doorof a waterfront mansion and found it open,we didn’t think twice about going inside, drinkingtheir wine, sliding down the staircase railing,bathing in the Jacuzzi tub, jets turned up.This is where I wish the story ended,with us laughing, running towardthe next sunkissed afternoon orhumid night together.This memory of us,happy, whole,preserved.A shipin a bottle,bobbing in the rising waters,no one knowing quitehow we got in there,if we have any intention of coming back out.