"How does she know who I am? And why does she give a damn about me?" - Wheatus
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Absentmindedly, I stir the melted remainder of the ice cream, blending the white, brown and pink into a homogeneous, murky liquid. Having been so absorbed in Harry's story, I haven't realized how much we've been eating. The sundae that was once bigger than my head is now a shallow puddle at the bottom of the bowl. I'm starting to get a little cold now, but the blazing furnace above us helps keep my shivers at bay.
"When are you ever gonna let me pay?" I ask.
"Never," Harry replies without humor.
I groan. "I don't work six days a week for no reason, you know. Let me buy my own ice cream for once."
"I work six days a week, too, sometimes more. Shouldn't I be allowed to spend my money how I'd like?"
"Sure you do, but---wait you what? How do you find time to sit and have dessert if you work so often?"
"How do you?"
He makes a good point. The true answer, if I were being honest with anyone here, is that he's become a sort of escape for me. Between school and work and work and school, time with him is the only downtime I have. And it's always been the highlight of any week.
I don't say any more and he lets his eyes roam around the shop. "I used to work in a place like this, but it was just a bakery. We didn't have desserts and a deli like this one."
Harry and I are the only two customers left. The two middle-aged women behind the counter don't kick us out, but begin to sweep and stack the chairs, which is enough of a cue for us to depart. As we get up from our seats, he adds, "I'd come home everyday from work smelling like cookies. It was the best."
His eyes have a distant, faraway quality, as if there's a slideshow of old memories being projected behind them and he's watching it.
"Do you still bake?" I ask, burying my hands in my pockets upon entering the chilly night.
"Sort of, but I've gotten rusty at it," he replies, folding the sides of his coat over himself. "I used to be able to make a proper corn pie."
"So what happened?" I ask.
"One Direction happened, I suppose," he says. "But even before that, White Eskimo happened."
"I'm assuming that's another band you were in whose name you have to explain," I laugh.
"I know, I know. It sounds kind of silly now that I think about it. I really liked these two bands called Snow Patrol and Arctic Monkeys and I wanted to maintain that cold weather theme, and the best I could come up with was White Eskimo."
"What about... Snow Monkeys?"
He stops in his tracks and stares at me, blinking while his jaw steadily falls closer to the floor. "Why didn't I think of that?!"
I let out a gentle laugh. "So you left the bakery job for One Direction?"
"Not just the bakery but White Eskimo. One Direction took off like I'd never imagined and before I knew it, I was traveling the world, doing what I've always wanted." His words sound trance-like, as if the mental slideshow has started up again.
"How's it feel?" I ask.
"How does what feel?"
"Living your dream. Doing what you've always wanted."
He doesn't respond, staying so quiet and for so long that I begin to think he hadn't heard me. Just before I repeat myself, he slowly says, "There is one thing I've always wanted to do."
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Fanfiction"Hold on a second," Harry says, suddenly coming to a halt. I stop with him and glance down. Somehow his hand has found its way into mine. "What? What's wrong?" I ask, shivering. "How disgustingly cliche would it be if we kissed in the rain right now...
