“With the slushy gripped in one hand, Sawyer held the hot dog in the other and leaned her head sideways to take a bite. She hadn't had a hot dog in years, perhaps not since the days of running through sprinklers. She was surprised by how it all came back to her instantly-the softness of the bun, the saltiness of the meat, the tang of the mustard. "It tastes like summer," she said, attempting to lick a stray dollop of mustard from the corner of her mouth. Nick smiled. "It's almost like you're a poet or something.”
Book:Summer Fridays