On a cicada-filled July evening, a single firefly crawls across a plaster wall blanketed in heavy, angular shadows. He (or she) goes about his business as I lazily sit cross-legged in a chair that hits my back just right, toy with the gnocchi remnants of my dinner and listen as the
Nocturnes of Chopin fill my still, air-conditionless apartment. A knock at the door makes me jump. It is Joe and Marcos who surprise me with a bowl of blackberry crumble they made with the fruit we picked this morning.
"It's best with ice cream," says Marcos.
"Yes, you should have it with ice cream," adds Joe.
I have some. It melts creamily over the still-warm, sugary-salty crust. I grab a fork and meet the firefly back in my studio for dessert. A blackberry-induced coma ensues.
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