San Diego in the heart of summer does not fuck around. The sun’s an unrelenting bully, hammering the streets with a fury like it has a personal grudge against anyone who dares exist beneath it. Asphalt ripples like a bad Instagram filter, and the air hangs heavy—thick enough to choke on.
After hours of lumbering around, Duke’s throat was wrecked. Sandpapered raw. Dry as a bone. Pleading for mercy. He was alone. Just his thoughts, the sun, and the sound of his own Airmax 90s echoing down cracked sidewalks that looked more like dried creek beds than municipal obligations.
Each step burned. Each step chipped away at what little resolve he had left.
What Did Duke Want?
What he wanted was simple: a cold drink. Something real. Not that watered-down gas station bullshit pretending to be refreshment. A proper agua fresca—sweet and bright. Something to help him ignore the scorching tattoos on his arms and remind him he’s not burning in hell, that is SoCal in August.
Not yet, at least.
Instead, all Duke had was a bag of Aguas Fresca from Casa Flor. Not exactly a first-place trophy, but a welcome consolation prize, no doubt. And maybe just what he needed.
He tore open the bag and took a deep, desperate breath. A familiar sweet and fruity aroma—that Biscotti-Gelato terp profile that’s become a modern classic. Creamy lemon and buttery notes played against berry and orange, like a tropical dessert in an overpriced tourist trap. It was light, playful.
Just sweet enough to make me wonder if I should’ve ordered it half-sweet. The thought made Duke realize he might be hallucinating.
He missed the gassy undertones that usually gave Biscotti its edge, though. Still, Aguas Fresca was enough of a sugary treat to satisfy someone looking to cut calories by skipping dessert.
The buds were a bright, lively green, frosted with enough trichomes to catch the sun’s glare and reflect it, disrespectfully, into Duke’s already washed-out vision. He was frustrated to discover the dry San Diego air had crept through the packaging, dulling some of the fresh promise, but it was still a sight to see.
How does Aguas Fresca smoke?
Duke lit up and was immediately caught off guard. The flavor was unexpectedly minty, with a whisper of gas. Life, like weed, rarely follows the script, he thought.
As the smoke curled past his lips, it eventually settled into flavors that mirrored the aroma: buttery-sweet, like a hipster bakery’s finest pastry. The kind of pastry served by a barista who sneers at your drip coffee order and somehow charges you fifteen bucks for the privilege.
He could almost taste the brown butter and Meyer lemons.
But that hit was more than flavor—it was liberation. Like the first sip of an ice-cold agua fresca on a blistering day, it was sharp, sweet, and strong enough to reset Duke’s mind. Steady his nerves.
Duke felt it. A gentle push into a better mood. A soft breeze cutting through the relentless heat.
His eyes opened wider, letting in more of the light, then puffed up, lazy and warm. Slowly, the tension melted like ice cubes on blacktop. The comedown suggested a siesta before the night’s festivities.
“Wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Duke muttered to himself.
Aguas Fresca to the Rescue
Just then, Duke spotted a sliver of shade beneath a weathered palm tree. Salvation. He kicked off his boots without thinking and moved toward it—arms outstretched like a paid extra in Dawn of the Dead—feeling the hot concrete pulse through his bare feet as the sun rained down heavy blows from overhead.
He may as well have been walking on glowing coals.
He didn’t care.
He was making it to that sword of shade, damn it.
Near the corner where Duke was currently fending off a heat stroke stood a small cart. Its colors faded, its sign riddled with more holes than a Louis Sachar novel. The vendor’s hand lifted a translucent jug filled with bright pink liquid—the taste of summer itself: fresh, tart, and fragrant. Duke handed over a few crumpled bills and took the cold cup with trembling hands like it was communion.
Duke knew if the woman had asked nicely enough, he might’ve handed over his entire wallet—chain and all.
That first sip was… everything. A sacrament of cool life that washed the heat from his throat. Soaked straight into his core. For a moment, the relentless sun faded like an aging spotlight. The city quieted, the ripples in the air settled, and Duke just sat there, savoring the simple mercy of shade and iced salvation.
Sometimes, he thought, surviving the summer isn’t always about outrunning the heat. It’s about suffering through it, building character. Finding the moments that make it all just a little more bearable and clinging onto them for dear life.
And right now, this moment—a quiet patch of shade, a cold drink in his hand, and the lingering comfort of Aguas Fresca—was enough to stop Duke from jumping into the Bea Evenson fountain. Again.
He can’t afford another citation.
