Cinnamon. The spice caught at the back of her throat, not an altogether unpleasant sensation. It rolled through her nostrils, settling on the tiniest buds of her tongue.
Suddenly, she was seven years old standing on a chair, wrapped in a flour-flecked apron. The late afternoon light streaming through the window catching stray hairs falling out of her ponytail to frame her face with strands shining like spun gold.
She pulled herself out of her silent reverie as the barista called her name a second time. She reached for her cinnamon latte and walked out into the late afternoon light.