Going for ice cream on a hot day

It's the kind of day where I forget to do things, or I start to do something then stop in the midst of doing it. 

Tom asks me how to get to Potrero Hill from Lincoln Park. I think it's a weird question– he's lived in San Francisco far longer than I have– but I tell him what I think is the best way. Later he sends a text, thanking me.

By evening, over a bowl of French vanilla ice cream, I discover the correlation between reading serious literature and falling asleep.

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