Ice cream, by Sarah Peper

Your palms rest on the sun-warmed cement as you sit on the ledge of a large water fountain. You had closed your eyes and tilted your head back to soak in the warm sun, and to enjoy the soft spray of icy droplets flying from the fountain. You had stopped by at the peaceful fountain on a whim. As you were wandering the sidewalks of the town, it had caught your attention by how it sparkled and shimmered in a patch of sunlight in the midst of a shady park.

A shift in the wind draws your attention back to the gurgling fountain. You twist your torso around to look at the stream of water bubbling up. The flickering blue base of water bobs up and down, tempting you to take your sandals off, swing your legs over the ledge, and dangle your feet into its cool depths. You turn around again only when your strained neck begs you to reposition your posture. With your eyes open, and facing forward again, you start to notice other people.

You watch a couple saunter hand-in-hand down the shady sidewalk, towards the fountain, towards you. The guy whispers into the girl’s ear, and she giggles, tossing her long, perfect hair over her shoulder. You wish for a minute that you could have what they have, to be as happy and content as they are, but then you chide yourself. Give them their privacy, you think.

You see a mother and her two young boys nearby, eating a picnic lunch underneath a majestic maple tree. You hear the younger son say “Mommy, can I have licorice?”

“No, honey. How about you eat your peanut butter and jelly first?” was her reply. Then, noticing wrappers tumbling around on the lush, green grass, she says to her older son, “Kyle, would you please pick up those wrappers and drop them in that garbage can by the tree over there on your right?”

You follow her gaze to the right. Beyond the garbage can and tree, you see a group of teenagers clustered in front of the movie theatre across the street. Their laughter and banter echoes across the street and into the park where you’re sitting.

Your eyes drift back to what’s in front of you. Straight ahead, from your sunny perch on the fountain, you see the intersection of two roads that border the park. As cars carefully cruise by, drivers peer through their windows at the traffic lights, all the while keeping their eyes peeled for pedestrians. Throngs of people populate the sidewalks that lead up to the intersection, the heart of the small town. Pedestrians cross the intersections, many bearing cell phones, Starbucks drinks, or shopping bags.

You observe the people on the sidewalls: Some are jogging by, listening to music on their iPods; some are strolling past, glued to their cell phones; some are dining outside on the sidewalks, taking advantage of outdoor seating while the weather is warm. Parents are pushing strollers, friends are laughing, clusters of awkward teens are teasing each other, and shoppers are walking into and out of the abundant shops. For a few minutes you conjure up stories of who all these people are, their personalities, their stories, their backgrounds.

You snap back to reality as, out of the corner of your eye, you see a father lift his toddler daughter up onto to the fountain ledge. You hop off the ledge to let them walk around the circumference of the fountain. You see the Dad, beaming with pride, holding her hand as she starts to take baby steps. She wobbles at first, but keeps going.

You see them smiling and having a good time, and it looks like they’ll be there a while. You know that your time at the fountain ledge is up. Besides, you’ve been there for a while. You sigh. You wonder what to do next.

You decide that because it’s so hot and muggy out, you should get some ice cream. Wait, you wonder, do you have enough money? You shove your hand into your pocket and pull up some dollar bills. You have two dollars. Not much, you think, but enough for an ice cream cone.

You walk away from the fountain. You pass the mom and her two boys (who are now eating licorice). Then you start to dodge the shoppers, joggers, teens, and cell phone users on the sidewalk. You cross the intersection when the sign flashes a hand.

You turn to the right and walk towards the ice cream shop. Your ears, which had tuned out the bustle and hustle of the town while you were sitting on the fountain’s ledge, register the explosion of noise. The incessant outpouring of chatter, birds singing, shoes slapping against cement, flags whipping in the wind, the purring of car engines, and bursts of laughter through open restaurant doors all combine to overwhelm you with both the sense of community and the feeling of loneliness at the same time.

As you thread your way through sidewalk, wrapped in the stifling heat, you start to notice the shop windows. They offer tempting goods: trendy clothes, toys, sweet baked goods, candy, savory meals. Should you stop into one of them? It would be closer, and you wouldn’t have to walk so far, you think. But no, you decide. Ice cream must be the thing. It’s so hot out.

Finally, you reach the ice cream shop. It’s a brick building and small. To your dismay, it’s packed to the brim; people are spilling out from the open entrance at the side of the building. Other customers are clustered at the front of the building, impatiently waiting to buy their cold ice cream and shakes through the open windows. You take your place at the end of the line that stretches out from the side door. A few minutes pass and you are sandwiched between a group of girls and an older couple. Both groups are discussing which flavors they want. The girls want to get chocolaty flavors, and the older couple wants to share a banana split. 

When you finally reach the counter (after narrowly avoiding a collision with the girls carrying their chocolate chip ice cream cones), the cashier asks you what you want. You hesitate for a minute, but choose strawberry ice cream (single, in a cone). You plunk your dollar bills onto the counter and, as the girl gets your change and ice cream, you survey the area for a good place to eat your ice cream. It’s crowded, so you see that you have to go outside. The girl hands you your ice cream, and you say, “Thanks.” You walk out the door.

You sit down on the grass by the curb of the shop’s driveway and lick your ice cream. At first you are self-conscious about the people walking past your solitary self, but after a while you concentrate on the ice cream. You taste the creamy strawberry flavor on your dry tongue, you swallow the cool treat, and it travels down your throat, cooling you. You become lost in your ice cream for one, two, three minutes.

Finally, it’s gone. After you crunch down to the stub of your waffle cone, which has just a few trickles of melted ice cream left on the bottom, you wish that you had ordered more.You shrug the thought off, though, as you dust your hands off on your shorts. You walk back inside the shop, dart through the long line of customers, wipe your sticky fingertips off the best you can with paper towels from the dispenser on the counter, get a sip of water from the drinking fountain, and walk back out the door as fast as you can.

Once you are outside, you stop and look at your watch. What should you do now? Go back to the fountain? Wander around the streets some more? You see that you still have two hours left before you have to be home. You realize that you’re standing across the street from the public library. You remember that an event was planned there for this afternoon, and your friends might be there. So you get back on the sidewalk and stride towards the library.