down massachusetts ave. you pedal towards mit’s stoic east-berlin-esque buildings. wind rushing through the hair of what’s become your spring-time-winter-boredrom pixie haircut. that one building always smell like a milky peppermint tea, why does it always smell like a milky peppermint tea? you resolve to figure it out, your inner boxcar child is itching to know which store among a collection of bike shops, falafel stands, and a vietnamese food truck smells like peppermint. and it’s always at 7:30 am on your way to your psych class. never at midnight, of course. midnight is dew on the commons grass you walk across to mount your majestic steed of a bike to pedal back home after dancing. it’s the glow of the light that illuminates your apartment stoop. midnight is getting splashed by a few hidden puddles on your ankle-grazing skirt that you daintily tie up in a rubber band so it doesn’t get caught on your spokes. midnight is when you go to sleep, glistening (“ladies don’t sweat, they glisten”, says every old woman in the south) and resolve for peppermint tea in the morning. extra milky. and this is what it sounds like.