It is the end of July, 2023. The weather is unbearbly hot and still, except for when rain storms fly by, cooling and refreshing. That is usually short lived I live on the porch, typically with at least one fan pointed at me. Nina, my lab, sits near me always, panting or sleeping. I walk her down to the shore often, to cool her and to stretch my back.
She went mad with barking, and if you know dogs enough to look at body language, you’d notice her wagging her tail and the body attached. A rasta has walked by with a small dog and a ridiculously cute puppy. He shouts up, and I have to stop the fan and the podcast I was listening to to hear him.
“I sell homemade wheat bread.”
For a moment I waver, thinking about the fact I am going back to the states on Monday.
A buck and a half. Why not.
He walks away I have no idea when he’ll be back, but I’m sure he will so I cobble together enough coins to pay.
The bread is about the size of a squashed softball. It smells heavenly.
“Cinnamon,” I ask?
“Oh, dere lots of spices in dere.”
I can’t wait.
Addendum: Well, Nina liked it.