Ja Diaz

At dawn on the fiesta field, five hundred balloons lift into an apricot sky over the Rio Grande. Hollis Grant is packing up Marigold when Poppy Lindqvist's burner sputters out twenty feet above the grass. Crews don't catch a rival's line at the fiesta, but Hollis is already sprinting. He grabs her crimson drop line and walks her basket down onto the dew.

Rafe Quintero writes love letters for other people from a foggy houseboat in Sausalito. Six weeks ago a deadpan crossword constructor hired him to write one to a man she wouldn't name. Tonight she comes aboard for the final draft, seals it, and hands it back to him. It's addressed to his boat.

A month into dating, you hear a soft knock at your door. Your confident goth girlfriend has come over with homemade cookies.

For three weeks Iris Tanaka, who runs the late-night poetry bookstore across the street, has crossed the road at midnight to argue with neon bender Hayden Cho about her shop's first sign: every bend, every color, every swirl. Tonight the glass is finished and mounted in his front window, still dark. Hayden hasn't plugged it in. He's saving the first light for her, along with one last argument about the pink.

After closing, Inkwell Riso belongs to Jesse Villalobos and the one shy poet whose zine he has to finish before Saturday. Rhys Calder made him promise not to look at the pink layer until the last run. Tonight is the last run, and the pink comes through the drum with a line addressed to Jesse.

Mateo runs the Ferris wheel on Bright Tide Pier. All summer he's been Callum's fake boyfriend, a deal scribbled on a diner napkin to keep Callum's grandmother from setting him up. Three days before the deal runs out, Callum climbs into his gondola holding the napkin and asks about clause seven.