Sweeter Than Summer

13 | red velvet cake

Frank stopped mid-huff. He gaped a little bit, finally lowering the scissors to the counter. I could uncross my arms from my chest now. "As in, a lesbian-lesbian?" he asked. Veronica snorted angrily. "As in, not pansexual? Not bisexual? Not gay-for-my-sister-but-also-gay-for-me?"

"She's definitely only into women," I confirmed. "Sorry, Frank."

For the first time all morning, he looked defeated. When he had come in to drop off some groceries, he had walked in guns blazing, accusing Veronica of 'betrayal' and 'cold, cold, malicious vengeance' the second he made his way through the door. But she didn't crumble under the pressure of Frank's dramatics – she'd given him that withering, condescending glare she gave almost everyone, and pretended she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Oh, my heart," he said melodramatically, clutching his chest with one hand. Abby grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'I hate my job' before tossing the rest of her ice cream in the trashcan and walking into the back room.

"Get lost."

"Please be nice to me, Ronnie. I'm a wounded man."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm emotionally injured. I can call you whatever I want."

"Call me Ronnie again, I dare you."

"Aw, don't be like that Ronnie."

"You –"

Veronica was interrupted by a bark, and our heads, simultaneously, turned towards the noise. Any threat she was about to make became irrelevant when we noticed the tiny terrier in the middle of the floor, attached to a chubby middle aged woman by a leash wrapped around her wrist.

For a second, no one said anything. My mouth was ajar, confused, and it took me a minute to finally give her the usual spiel. "Welcome to Franny's?"

The dog barked again, and I winced.

"Ma'am," Frank was trying to use his charming voice, but even he sounded half-hearted, "we do have a sign that says 'no dogs.'"

She waved this aside with her free hand. "I'll only be a minute, sweetie."

Veronica sighed. "You can't have your dog in here."

"I said, I'll only be a minute." Now, she turned to me, the only one who hadn't offended her yet. "What does 'Flavor of the Day' mean?"

"Oh," I glanced quickly at the chalkboard above my head, then back down, "it's really the Flavor of Every Three or Four Days, it's a specialty flavor we only have for –"

"But what's in it?"

She was only making me more nervous. "Well, um, this one is red velvet cake, which means it's cream cheese ice cream –"

"Okay, not getting that, so, what about chocolate brownie? What's in that?"

Her dog started to intently lick a spot on the floor, whimpering, and, beside me, Veronica's hand was clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching, like she was getting ready to throw a punch. If I had to switch places with this woman in a sarong, I would be scared, maybe even terrified. For Pete's sake, I was scared of Veronica on a normal day, when the only thing I did wrong was politely ask her if she could watch the register while I was out back.

"It's just what it sounds like, a chocolate ice cream base, with brownie bites and fudge ripple."

"Yuck, so, what about pecan crunch?"

"It's vanilla ice cream with caramel and salted pecans."

"Huh. How about blueberry swirl?"

"It's just blueberry ice cream? And vanilla ice cream?"