On certain mornings I've been mixing sunscreen into my body lotion. Not the fancy, scentless kind that I wear on my face every day in order to feel virtuous, nor the less fancy but equally scentless sort that I use on my exposed limbs when I go outside and remember that I'm supposed to do that, but the thick, gloppy, coconut-Lacroix-smelling stuff that we keep stray bottles of in beach bags with sand still at the bottom.
One day last summer I left my house with no destination; I wound up taking the subway to Brighton Beach, where I bought a slutty, complicated bathing suit for $11 and a beach towel and a bottle of sunscreen for I think the same amount. I ate tiny Uzbek dumplings and read a library book, and Brendan biked down to meet me. This smell, usually so clumsy, reminds me that summer does come, despite all evidence to the contrary.
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