Ice Cream Cone

On a bad mood.

On Sunday afternoon, I was in a mood. The self-pitying kind that propagates, curdles. It started when what I anticipated to be a simple bike repair turned into an ordeal, and my afternoon plans evaporated, my optimism annihilated.

C. was away for the weekend, so I sulked around the house by myself, thinking what a waste of a beautiful day it was when there was still so much of it left. I promise I can help fix your bike, he texted me, You should take the bus to Harvard sq and get a bite or ice cream or something.

It still took me like another hour to gin up the energy to actually go outside, though almost as soon as I did, I felt better. It was sunny, warm, with just a hint of fall in the breeze. Swarms of soon-to-be-oriented students in matching T-shirts signaled the impending school year’s start, but everyone else seemed to be soaking in the final dregs of summer. The ice cream place only had two flavors left for the day by the time I got there. One was my favorite—honey lavender—so I didn’t mind.

I splurged (an extra buck or so) for the chocolate waffle cone. Every waffle cone I get seems to be afflicted with the same fatal flaw. Ice cream dripped out the bottom of the cone where it wasn’t quite sealed, a leak that could only be stanched by finishing it off.

I accepted my sticky fate. As I walked back through the neighborhood, I passed a couple of kids who had set up a lemonade stand on the sidewalk. The girl made plaintive eye contact with me, a potential customer, and just as soon noticed my hands were full, ice cream running down both my arms. Oh, she said, it looks like you are having fun.