The heavy bass of "This Is How We Do It" rattles the trunk of a passing sedan, competing with the rhythmic *clack-clack* of plastic Pogs hitting the pavement. I frame a shot of two girls in plaid slip dresses and knee-high socks, their tiny nylon backpacks catching the sharp afternoon light.
I accidentally bump a businessman's shoulder while adjusting my focus lens; I mutter a quick "my bad" as he pushes past toward the bank auction. The air smells of cheap gasoline and hot asphalt, a gritty backdrop for the preppy, minimalist silhouettes cutting through the Friday crowd.
Memories from that day
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