“I think I’d like to taste like salted caramel,” I mused to the silent, sun-baked eyes. “Sweet up front, but not afraid to be honest, to be unique. A little quirky, but always grounded. Real.”
The wrinkles relaxed as the old oak let out a drawn-out, understanding sigh. “You worry too much,” he exhaled. I stood up, wiping the rubber crumbs out of my palms, and then reached for the lonely puffs of whipped cream floating through the sky.