nothing cools the summer heat like an ice cream cone and if you happen to be in Lynchburg, VA that means Mr. Goodie's. there are other places where you can get any kind of process candy swirled into your stone slab treat in the air conditioned comfort of a pleather cushioned booth, but at this little shack, accompanied by four rainbow umbrella-ed picnic tables, you can get a small cone, ice cream rising seven inches out of it, for less than two dollars.
it is worth the wait in a line that stretches through the back lot of the CVS parking lot, and that just gives you a good reason to talk to a neighbor you have yet to meet. it is also a pretty good place to watch a homicide.
they are sitting at the second table to the left, she eating a sundae, he a chocolate dipped cone, which he is mashing into his five year old face as if he could capture the taste through any orifice. this is how the spot of brown chocolate found its way to the oasis of skin right beneath the dimples on his cheek, prompting her like many a mother to spit on a napkin and try to achieve flawless perfection in his face.
"now sit still and let me get this," her two lumps of sugar voice prompts him.
he is having none of this though, as he understands each second you take your tongue from the tasty treat, lines of gooey goodness drain down your fingers onto the table leaking through to the asphalt below. he does what any sugar crazed boy would do and tries to keep the cone in his mouth.
"just stop it! why do you have to..." the sugar has been replaced with bullhorn authority.
desperately she pins his cone gripping arm with her left while swooping in with the spit soaked napkin on the right, but he leans into her stretching his lips over her shoulder, dragging his chin across her shirt, leaving a three inch skid mark, on what must be her favorite blouse or at least one that was relatively clean.
"now look what you have done, don't you know...," really what she has to do this evening is of no importance to anyone but her, and we are all trying not to look as she sets in on the nature of his heredity that she was so stupid to sleep with, though it seems his father comes from the canine variety and the apple has not fallen too far from the tree.
his arm still pinned behind her, gravity is beginning to do its work on the once frozen mass of frozen chocolate, though he has retreated his lip quivering, the spot of brown on his cheek dancing up and down, while her crimson face keeps blowing steam, adding humidity to the already hot day. this is the moment that with a great sucking release the whole mass of ice cream tumbles out of his cone, rolling down her back, settling on the waistband of her pants, which are slightly distended from her leaning over to get the spot of brown.
i must say i have never quite heard some of the words, which i will assuredly look up online just in case i ever need to eviscerate someone, pinning them like a butterfly behind a glass case. no one is talking at this point, except her, but she doesn't really notice because she is busy trying to drag the "ungrateful whelp" across the parking lot to their four door beater. it's obviously all his fault, he should understand this of course, being all of five and having the audacity to ruin a perfectly good summer evening.
as they squeal out of the parking lot, we all recover at once from the shell shock of what just happened, though most of our cones have melted in wet, sticky rivulets down our fingers and now taste of battery acid. a line forms at the trashcan, no one saying much as we head to our cars, hugging our children, saying silent prayers for the boy with the little spot of brown...
...hoping not to see our reflection in her tail lights.
This is a Theme Thursday post.