I spent the summer of ‘96 in chlorine, soaking the carpet in the living room watching women’s gymnastics at the Olympics in Atlanta on TV while my hair turned green. In outdoor showers, I rubbed thick white conditioner into my wet hair, kneaded the skin beneath cheap metal rings that oxidized the flesh between my fingers, coated my body in sunblock. On screen, the fleshy stems of sunflowers hovered near muscled thighs. Gold, silver, bronze. Rosin powdered on palms, poles gripped, bodies flung.

Four summers later, there were hours lost downloading music from Limewire with the door shut. Mp3 files were transferred to CDs and played on a Panasonic discman in air conditioning, on headphones with my body draped over the ruffled trundle bed where I listened to love songs in the dark while the grass outside wilted brownish in stale August heat.

Now customers complain of a green glow beneath the screens of iPhones on an online forum. A user types they’ve “caught, only for a second or two, the edges of the screen glow green” when turning on the home screen. At the beach, a friend tells us his grandmother saw the green flash once, “plain as day” even though it was literally sunset. We looked up from beers and blinked. Missed it!