Post-dental lunch out, over a book and a bunch of glasses of water because it’s so hot outside, then an ice cream cone on the hot walk home.

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I can’t believe D. is leaving. I really can’t believe it. I don’t know what the library will be like without her. Sadder. Less fun. Less good. Less useful and responsive and communicative. So we went out to lunch, on me, I got the ramen with pork and D. got the ramen with chicken and she told me, among other things, why Cantonese? We got the ice cream for dessert, a scoop of green tea and a scoop of black sesame, the black sesame was far and away my favorite.

You know what’s great about the Old Spaghetti Factory? That every entree is a complete meal, including dessert. And honestly, by this time in my conference travels, I was beyond ready to zone out and let other people make all the decisions. I got the cheesy pasta; M. got the cheesy pasta with mushrooms. We ate and talked and talked and talked and ate and then M. drove A. and I to the airport. Time to go home.

K. bought us lunch while I sat under the Manhattan bridge overpass and O. went back and forth and back and forth on the sidewalk, waving at me every time he passed. K. and I ate the tomatos and mozzarella while O. went around and around on the carousel, waving at us every time he passed. We finished our lunch on the rocks looking at the water, O. tossing pebbles, ambling back to grab K. and pull her around the park. It was sunny still, wouldn’t go gray til later, I was overdressed in long pants. Then we went for ice cream, it wasn’t nearly as good as the line suggested, and we talked a lot about that.

My bags were packed and dropped off at the car courtesy of R. and his golf cart, all that was left to do was consume one last meal on the shores of Walloon Lake. The daily special was fish and chips but my stomach was already reeling from a week’s worth of soft serv so I stuck to salad bar. And then some more soft serv just one last one.

Pizza day! I took one slice and the rest was a giant plate of salad. I took the honey dijon mustard so of course a bee needed to drink that, lit on the side of my plate and slurped away. O. sat next to me downing a hot dog that he insisted I turned into a pretzel! because he wrapped it in a napkin. I want to marry that soft serv machine. Is that legal yet in New York state?

Back in the day I saw A. five times a week and it was pretty much the best thing about that job, we’d go get her car washed at lunchtime, eat in the mall. But then I got a gig in Brooklyn, A. had a kid, time is what it is, New York. Lucked into a spontaneous date, I got the pancakes even though it’s pretty much like eating a couple sliced of cake for lunch, why not follow it up with ice cream.