The first time she drank a spiced pumpkin latte it resembled tasting autumn. The powder topped white froth remembered her of brown fallen leaves. The aroma was rich with warm spices, as if someone had been cooking in a country kitchen with harvest foods. Its heat seized her in a lover’s complete embrace, whispering comfort and safety. She sipped slowly, allowing images of caving Jack ‘o lanterns and eating pumpkin pie to crowd her mind. Every mouthful afterwards intensified the taste and lingered on her tongue. The last swallows were the strongest, but it didn’t over power. She wanted to run amongst trees and play in leaves. The sweet syrup end hit her hard into a toffee apple infusion. Then there was only froth, like winter snow in the bottom of the mug.