Small town, America
Two little girls on the corner have set up a table with a mason jar full of pink juice. They’re probably 7 or 8 years old, they have on bright-colored sun dresses, they’re yelling after dog-walkers and passing cars. They’re selling watermelon agua fresca, homemade. They are not even remotely Hispanic. For 50 cents they sell me a full cup and I tell them to keep the change. They don’t know anything about irony or globalization, but they do know how to made a damn refreshing drink.
