I go out for donuts and come home with a five dollar icon of Saint Teresa, a bottle of passion fruit soda, and a small ceramic statue of praying hands from the little corner store that’s been here forever and half a dozen donuts from the worrying but tasty donut place that has flavors like “passion fruit creme brûlée” and “rosemary brown butter” sophisticated unsophisticated confectionary.

I wear my broad brimmed black straw hat with the bow, my 70s groupie romper and knee high boots. I see my reflection in a shop window, the sheen of sweat on my chest and I think how lucky I am to live here. I walk home carrying my donut box with the logo designed for instagram photos and feel very #aesthetic.

My apartment is air conditioned and I put my bags down in the shade and cool. I hang Saint Teresa next to an Albrecht Durer print that’s been in my family since the 19th century and a tiny image of Marie Antoinette I bought in an antique shop five years ago.

I eat my passion fruit donut, I like passion fruit, and the crisp sugar shell topping cracks pleasingly with each bite.

I spritz my chronically messy place with pretentiously named room spray bought on sale on Amazon and simply appreciate the heat like a lizard basking in the sun.