Ice Cream Date
Wholesome stories every Friday
We entered Mr. Dada’s Ice Cream Palace. A 5-foot cardboard sign greeted us: MINT CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM DAY (unlimited mint chocolate for 24 hours!). I asked for two servings of cookies and cream. The uniformed midget behind the counter said they ran out. I asked for plain vanilla. No luck. Every other flavor besides mint chocolate was unavailable.
“I’m sorry,” said Patricia.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t know.”
“But,” she sighed. “But we traveled so far.”
Underneath the cheap plastic table, our knees touched. I caressed her silk hands and slowly carried them to my lips. Her cheeks turned red.
I nibbled on the chocolate chips sprinkled atop the blue-green body of the dessert. I scooped a sliver of ice cream, slid it to my tongue as I held back a surfacing cringe. Patricia pouted and stared like my Husky, Mr. Miles, after molesting the couch. “It’s okay,” I said. “I love you.”
We laughed, flirted, stared longingly, while our 500-peso ice cream quietly melted into oblivion.
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