Ice Cream

"We need to talk," you say. "Let's go to the ice cream place."

As we walk there you're silent and I'm silent with you, and we stay that way until we tell the woman at the counter which flavours we'd like: vanilla and caramel on a sugar cone for you, and internally I laugh because you've always had a sweet tooth, chocolate fudge and mint chip in a cup for me. My throat is dry. The ice cream helps, but not much.

"So, Leo, what did you want to tell me?" I ask. You smile that golden smile of yours, and I can see how she fell for you. How could anybody not?

"I want to tell you that you're more than just a brain and that you're better than you think you are," you reply promptly. You stand, lean across the table, and kiss me on the lips, soft and sweet. "I want to tell you I love you, Michael."

Before I can say anything you get up and walk out the swinging glass doors and don't check to see if I'm following you, because you know I'm not, you know full well that I'm sitting here speechless in a sparkly turquoise booth seat in a Baskin Robbins ice cream shop with lips that taste like dulce de leche and hands that won't stop shaking and a brain that won't work properly and a heartbeat that won't calm down.

Mint chip ice cream melts and mixes with the chocolate fudge in my styrofoam bowl.

Reviews

[David Jae]

I quite like this. Not entirely sure what's going on, but it is full of character and emotion.
There are a few spelling mistakes that need correcting, however.