Did the saxophone survive the ice cream on Quinta Avenida?

Around 3pm on Quinta Avenida you walked past with a saxophone case on your back and an ice cream cone melting slowly down your wrist, like a person who had made peace with it. I was across the street with a notebook, smiling like an idiot. You licked your wrist once, with complete composure, and kept walking. The cone won. I hope the sax was okay. I hope the ice cream was pistachio. I wrote it down, crossed the street, and you were gone.