It's a summer day in the city, so you grab your bike for a ride. The sun is bright in the sky but you can't feel the heat in the shade of the trees along the path. You head to the marina parking lot and choose a wooden bench by the water. When you step off the bike, the pavement burns your feet. You spend 5 minutes squishing your chocolate-mocha granola bars into bill-sized pieces for the ducks. A squirt of h2o and a stretch, and then you're back in the saddle, waving to the ducks. An old guy sitting in a parked truck waves back.
You carry on to downtown, toward the smells of steak and lilacs and exhaust, until you find a small garden packed with friends sitting under a trellis, smiling and eating chocolate chip cookies.
A glass of lemonade with clinking ice cubes and a lemon slice finds its way into your hand, and a bowl of cloud-like whipped cream and lipstick-red strawberries on biscuits appears before you. Like a desert tourist crazed with thirst, you feel compelled to reach for this mirage with both hands. Then it is in your hands. And then it is not a mirage but a miracle, a tasty miracle, and then all that is left is an empty plastic bowl and whipped cream on your fingers. You bike home through traffic with a delicious memory imprinted on your tastebuds. The straps of your backpack rest on the sunburnt areas of your shoulders. It's a summer day in the city.
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