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Spy Tugs

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The aroma was the first assault, a rich and buttery wave that curled from the bakery's propped-open door. It was a scent that bypassed the nose and went straight to some primal part of the brain, promising profound comfort. Sunlight, weak and pale through the morning mist, glinted off the glass display case within. There, arranged like polished jewels on a bed of woven parchment, sat the pastries. Their flaky, golden-brown layers seemed to shiver with each subtle vibration from the street. A delicate dusting of powdered sugar crowned each one, resembling a light fall of fresh snow on a miniature, edible landscape. My stomach gave an audible and insistent rumble, a direct protest against the sensible breakfast I had consumed merely an hour before. I could almost feel the phantom sensation of that first bite, the way the crust would shatter into a thousand buttery pieces. My resolve, which had felt so firm during my walk, began to soften and crumble at the edges. The decision was no longer a matter of if, but simply of how many I would allow myself to devour. Every logical argument for restraint was being systematically dismantled by that hypnotic, tantalizing fragrance.