Written as a break from literary criticism.

Ice, painfully cold, stings my tongue. Remnants of pink passion and the tang of lemons linger. A burst of summertime like the sharp crackle of fireworks.

A raspy voice, metallic guitar, ending with the anticlimax of a shaking tambourine. Buzz of a blender, staccato instructions—“mocha—sweetened iced —caramel—.“ The silence of opened books; gentle click-click-click of the keys. Soundtrack to an afternoon.

Nine pairs of headphones. A moment of eye contact. Three more moments followed by half of a smile. Later, we’ll walk past one another and pretend we’ve never met.