A Crisp Golden Shelter

Holding my split waffle cookie carefully against my chest, I carried it away from the bakery's brick ledge and into the quiet grass of the park. Beneath an old wooden picnic bench, I found a dry patch of earth nestled between two thick roots. I tilted the waffle cone upright so its wide opening rested on the ground, creating a tiny, golden-roofed hut. Crawling inside through the cracked side, the sweet aroma of toasted sugar wrapped around me completely. I sat cross-legged in the warm amber shadow, peeking out between the waffle grids at tiny blades of grass swaying in the afternoon light.