a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

 

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

 

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

 

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

 

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

a little slice of an afternoon

 

"Or a knuckle sandwich," she said, holding up her fist. Another thing about her was that she loved to employ silly clichés, would even go so far as to set up a situation just for a reason to use one. She made a good game of it, and it seemed that I had just fallen victim to one of her setups. I didn't mind.

"Or a knuckle sandwich," I echoed, putting my feet down on the ground. "I feel dizzy!"

"I wonder why memories come back to me so randomly," she said to me, starting to swing a little bit again. "The brain works so strangely."

"Do you think that if you feel other sensations, or see other sights, that it might trigger more memories?" I asked, already feeling that the question had been answered, but still looking for her opinion on the topic.

"I don't know... maybe. The smell of burning toast and newspapers at the deli around the corner, the texture and smell of a warm towel after washing my face in the morning, the feeling in your stomach as you drop for just a second in the arc of a swing, or maybe the sound that a bus makes as its air brakes release pressure when it stops to pick you up. All of those things, they've triggered random memories for me - even if the memories weren't nearly as related as the one I just had while swinging. Like the time that you dropped a knife into the kitchen sink and it reminded me of a song that I heard once, when I was a teenager. How I remembered a whole song, a little slice of an afternoon in the middle of the wintertime, because of the seemingly unimportant sound of a knife falling against the metal basin of a kitchen sink," she paused for a moment.