We were standing in one of Ici's ridiculously long lines on College Ave. It ran down the block. We stood at the trunk of the third tree from Ici's door. There was a father, holding a dog's leash in one hand and his boy's hand in the other. His daughter was swinging herself around her his legs. We'd been standing in the line for five minutes predicting the flavors. There was this moment of silence before we both turned to each other.
"We don't have to get ice cream from here."
"No, we don't."
"I mean, we could walk down the block and get ice cream from Haagan Dazs."
"Yea, it's just as good."

We left the line, both knowing quite well that we were settling for something far inferior, that no ice cream beats Ici ice cream.

I find myself in memories like these. Random memories with no significance. Yet, in those moments when I'm digging my face into my scarf so my lips don't go numb, I have a Tesco bag in one hand, and an ice cream in the other, thinking about the medieval relationship between Christians and Muslims that I find myself in some mundane moment of my past life.
I always smile.

Memory is a strange thing, turning moments of nothingness into 'moments' worth recalling.