Before work at the studio this afternoon I stopped at the Yogurtland on La Brea to satisfy my newly persistent craving for peanutbutter/Cap'n Crunch/strawberries/chocolate/mochi. Yeah, my cravings are pretty specific.
It was really gorgeous out, so I sat at one of the little tables on the sidewalk and read some Ray Bradbury while I ate (with the pink spoon because I am a girl; that is the rule at Yogurtland). A man in a business suit with spiky hair sauntered past with his own bowl of froyo. "It's addictive, isn't it?" he commented conspiratorially.
Why yes, I nodded. Yes it is. Was it something in my eyes, something in my posture, that revealed I had been there not quite eighteen hours earlier?
I would like to replace the liquor store on my street corner with a Yogurtland. But I suppose it would have to sell toilet paper for those nights when we run out at 2am. And Diet Cokes, for Emily.