The sun is a bright tepid springtime color, the same angle that it hits São Paulo in the late fall. Same time of year, due to earth curvature and the properties of spheres (wrt a singular source of light). The smell of food cart baked good oil and the bright splash of fresh wind on my face and suddenly I'm no longer in DUMBO, Brooklyn, New York, New York, but back on the windy, hilly streets of Butantã, São Paulo, São Paulo. Difference being that on this street, English is spoken, but if I stare off into the distance far enough, glaze my eyes over, and dream, for a moment, the voices drop beneath a certain register and there's a sing song pitch I can string together and pretend that it's tonic A's I'm hearing instead of throaty lisped 'th's. A car honks, exhaust overwhelms the breeze, pulling me back into the present moment, wherever that is, and I'm suddenly no longer sure what side of the bed I woke up on.
Or which side I wish it had been.
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