The Denim Diaries Cinque

She touched the ground on the sidewalk, a show for the northbound traffic. It was hot. So hot. Too hot to keep at it. It was that hot.

Hot ground. Point gotten.

Across the street she reached down to the ground again, to touch it. She’d been committed to honoring the spirit of the Girl Scouts’ shtick back in the day (her Mission-based parents let her do it for one season, cookie sale and all, then they told her to make it her own and to go teach her younger twin sisters). So she knew the Brutalist number behind her offered mammoth shade, but when the wind’s not blowing at all and the bay is clear, the last thing by which you want to be is next to a big hot block of concrete.

“Cooler,” she figured. “But who would wanna be here?”

No one.

There are people out there who aren’t out there by choice or for their health. Copy that. Some people are out there to tan, while others are always out there, burning. She thanked her lucky star, bought a six-pack of small bottles to give out to people on her way home, went home and watched Big Little Lies.

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