There was bread in the air

It was dark and the car was point­ed east — some ex­press­way was be­hind it and some more was ahead, with the ex­act pro­por­tions rapid­ly chang­ing. Its win­dows were down and its sun­roof was too. Around here, la madre nat­u­raleza usu­al­ly cra­dles us close to her sticky and of­ten gross bo­som, but she had tak­en the night off.

In Miami, mid-60s is fair­ly cool for any time of year. I take what I can get.

I couldn’t hear what was play­ing be­cause the en­gine and the wind were too loud, and I was de­ter­mined not to be that guy. I prob­a­bly had some­thing on my mind too, but who can re­mem­ber? For a stretch of road per­haps a half-mile long, how­ev­er, the air and my thoughts were sud­den­ly full of the un­mis­tak­able scent of freshly-baked… sour­dough. I think it was sourdough.

This was pleas­ing to me. Then it went away. I kept driving.