The longest relationships I've ever had is with ice cream. For the past fourteen years, I've gotten ice cream every second Sunday. This is a "hell-or-high-water" scenario. If I don't have it, I tend to think I've ruined the rest of my week and I land myself in some less than desirable scenarios. This could be me. Or it could be because I didn't have my ice cream. Now, I only have it every other Sunday because after the age of eighteen, my metabolism wasn't entirely keeping up with my dairy intake, and once you get a taste of artisan ice cream made with real cream and fresh ingredients, you become an absolute idiot and basically give them all the pin numbers to every bank card in your wallet. Again...could just be me.
Ice cream on Sunday started after my childhood dog, a floppy basset hound named Duck, was hit by our neighbour's car. Duck got out, chased after something, and bam: no more Duck. My father, the man who bestowed Duck with his fabulous name, decided to soothe my sorrows with ice cream. It didn't bring Duck back, but at least I'd stopped crying and my Dad was able to smile knowing he'd calmed me down. Since then, I've used ice cream to connect. It has been the most predictable part of my life, and I have dragged all those who have mattered to me over the years to various locations to indulge in the splendor that is a dairy-induced coma.
Today's Sunday has the honour of my oldest adult friend, Shelby Green, tagging along with me. I need to make the point that "oldest adult friend" feels weird to say, but we've only known each other since our first week of university. She never knew my childhood. She never knew my adolescent years. She had no photos of me brandishing hairstyles that would make you cringe and possesses no knowledge of my borderline unhealthly teenage obsession with vampire fanfiction (including sparkles and otherwise). Shelby is that friend you make that sticks with you because she understands the teen years fall away. They tend not to haunt you once you get away from what you used to know. You get to exist as the 'you' that you want to be once you get away from all the influences of your upbringing.
Sitting in a booth, we've both propped our legs up on the seats. Our feet just reach the edge of the wooden bench seats as we watch the people come in and out. This is where she and I guess what each new customer is going to order. We rarely get into the specifics. Mostly we guess cone versus bowl, sundae versus milkshake. It's a basic game unless a customer decides to taste test multiple flavours of the hard ice cream. This is when Shelby and I gently stalk from our booth and try to determine which flavour will win. It's like being commentators for some obscure sport that no one really knows about, but somehow still manages to be televised. Today, we haven't been so lucky to play commentators, but we've just begun to dine on our own ice cream.
Looking over to Shelby, she's pushing at the pool of hot fudge in the middle of her soft serve. The fudge moves slowly up towards the edge of its icy white mountain before pouring down to the peanuts that line the edge of the clear container she holds. Hot fudge sundae in a bowl is Shelby's order EVERY time. She had never deviated. She's not about to change order either. I once tried to get her get caramel sauce instead of hot fudge and got a lecture on the "necessity of maintaining the status quo for the sake of the behavioural dimension of our psyche." I no longer pressure her to try anything new. I, on the other hand, tend to go all over the map. Let my ice cream freak flag fly. The more variation, the merrier. Today, I am content with my choice of raspberry ice cream that towers in the waffle cone that this place brags are homemade. I'm a sucker for a waffle cone. I don't care if they come from a box or are fresh pressed: just put my ice cream in it.
Shelby's gaze looks up to the counter where servers are busy creating whatever sugar-filled creations the patrons have already paid for. Her lips purse and she tilts her chin slightly to signal that I should be looking at the counter. Following her line of sight, I see a man standing in front of the line of freezers. My brow furrows for a moment, wondering why I hadn't heard the bell chime when he entered. I must have been too caught up in Mount St. Hot Fudge. Although I can't see his face yet, I'm assuming his eyes are scanning the colourful array of containers inside. I do my best to give him a thorough once-over.
Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't learn a lot from looking at someone's back. Their hair, posture, and even how they move their shoulders during certain responses can be informative. And, I mean, I'm not going complain about the scenic view either.
"Mint chocolate chip," Shelby whispers to me, both of us watching as he points to a few of the flavours. He's a taste-tester. A sampler. Shelby stops for a moment when she realizes that the server has passed him two different flavours to try. His voice is too low for us to catch what he asked for, but I can see the brilliant mint green and I know she might have one up on me. Shelby smirks and adds: "Classic. Mint chocolate chip. In a waffle bowl. Extra chocolate."
"Rocky Road. Classic cone," I rebut. She scoffs and takes a hefty spoonful of ice cream and shoves it into her mouth. It reminds me to take keep my own ice cream from dripping all over my hands and onto my lap. As a try to clean up the edges of own cone, Shelby hums in interest in the man at the counter points out three more flavours to test. The look on the servers face is one of false happiness that all service industry workers know too well: you know he wants this guy to just pick what he wants and go, but he gets paid to plaster on a smile and serve.
My eyes scan the man at the counter again. He's tall. Definitely over six feet. His hair is dark, and under the florescent lights, I'm trying to figure out of it is black or such a dark brown that it's masquerading as black. The sides are cut short, but the top has some length that is pushed back from his face. The say it seems to stand on its own looks unruly. His shoulders are rolled back and his arms are tucked up. I guess he's folding his hands in front of him until spoons are passed to him to try out new flavours. He's solid and broad and this is all just from looking at him from one angle. I look over to Shelby and she's been eyeing him up the same way I have, only she can't hold in a blush. I can only imagine what her mind has come up with to make pink flush across her cheeks. She finally looks at me and realizes I've caught her. She's flustered but tries her best to keep her a straight face.
"He's tried out eight flavours already," Shelby says lowly, forgetting about her ice cream for a moment. Her spoon sits lazily in her grip before she manages to takes it grasp again.
I shrug. "He's indecisive. I'm changing to chocolate vanilla dip. Wants it all but goes back to what's familiar."
"You can't change one you've guessed already."
"Shelb, he's pointing out flavour number nine. We might have some time."
The man releases his hands to his side and he takes a step back from the counter. His shoulders lift slightly, and I watch as his hands lift at his sides. I can't quite tell if it is apologetic or confrontational. The server has started to roll his eyes. I can see the man shake his head. From my periphery, I can see Shelby swing her feet to sit in the booth normally but won't peel her vision from the guy. She and I are glued to the scenario. At least, that's what we'd lie and say out lout when really we just want to find out what this guy really looks like.
When the man finally turns, I can't move.
I'm stuck.
Frozen in my spot.
His facial structure looks like the ones you'd see in an art history text. He has high cheekbones that seem to distract from a strong nose. His beard is trimmed close to his jawline, which I can tell would sit squarely if it wasn't covered in thick facial hair. I'm struck by the colour of his eyes: the seem to play the same trick as his hair. I can't quite tell what colour they are, but there is no way they could be anything other than a rich espresso. I want to move closer to him. I want to see just what they look like face to face. I want to know so badly that I can feel the frustration building inside me.
This is when I realize that we're staring at each other.
"He's looking at you like you're a sundae – cherry and all," Shelby mutters to me in an attempt to have me turn and face her. Even though I can't see her face, I know her eyebrows might as well jump off her forehead they've arched so high. I also know that the look she's providing is an attempt to make me pull my eyes away from him.
It's not helping.
His eyebrows furrow causing his forehead to crinkle. The pit of my stomach falls as I watch his throat bob. This is as much emotion as he offers. No look in his eyes glint towards attraction or acknowledgement. No gesture that would indicate unhappiness, anger, or discontent. His hands push into his pockets. The broad leather band on his wrist pushes up against his forearm and I can see how the cords in his arms seem to tighten. A silver rimmed watch-face glints at me.
I need to look away.
I need to turn from him and look at Shelby.
I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds.
I can't move.
I can't breathe.
But it is the man who turns first. He's the one to submit in our staring contest. He walks toward the door, his boots making little sound as he exits the shop. As soon as his form no longer darkens the door, I feel as if I'm had a whole skyscraper lifted off of me. I inhale slowly.
Shelby's staring at me like I've grown a set of horns. Normally, I'm quick to respond, but the area of my brain that deals with sarcasm and bodily functions is coming through as static.
"Yo! Nora. Earth to Nora. Come in," she drones, waving her spoon in front of me. It isn't until she taps the metal utensil on the table that I click back to reality. When she realizes I've snapped out of it, she pries: "You know him? Or just some kinda mystical brainwave I miss out on?"
"I have no clue who the hell he was."
"He looked like he was about to devour you in the middle of the store. Whip cream and all," she cackles before shoving another spoonful of ice cream and fudge into her mouth. Shelby's laugh always slays me – it seems to fill the room before it dawns on her how loud it actually is. Then she tries shrink down and pretend it wasn't hurt, but the look in her eyes always tells you she was guilty of that moment of enjoyment.
"Depends where he puts the whip cream," I joke, a wry laugh following as I skim the sides my waffle cone with my tongue to catch the dribbles of a rich pink ice cream that have leaked over my fingers.
I'm still trying to find my mental footing. For some reason, I want to hide how I've frozen in front of Shelby. I want to disguise the fact that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Indecisive made me feel like I was weighted to the bottom of the ocean and I didn't mind like drowning. In fact, I would have welcomed it.
"Don't be gross," she immediately snaps back. For a psychology grad student, she's wound tighter than a nun when I deliver my own comments. The girl doesn't handle any of my sex-laced retorts as well as she once did. I'm blaming all the nights studying Freud during her first few years of university – he's ruined her. Especially if I read that blush from earlier correctly.
I roll my eyes. "You'll be fine."
We bothsmirk at one another and dig into the rest of our treats, ignoring the rest ofthe public who wanders into the shop.
Something in the back of my mind keeps poking at me. It's part of the question that Shelby posed: "You know him? Or just some mystical brainwave I missed out on?" I didn't know him. But something inside me told me I did. Something was so familiar about him, but I don't know what it was. I don't know him, but I might. That's possible, right?