Strawberry Ice Cream

Day One

This is the day I met you, the summer of sophomore year when you were working at the local ice cream parlor. It was a place that I went to regularly, a place where I could seek refuge in the hardest of days. Though the brightly colored walls put others on edge, it soothed me, making me forget the events of the day. Usually, these events were simple: an upcoming exam, a friend problem, a break up. But on this day in particular, something else had happened to me entirely.

"What can I get for you?" You asked me.

It wasn't the first time I had seen you. You went to my school; you were in my Spanish class. And to be honest, you weren't the most beautiful boy I had laid my eyes on. Your hair was dark brown, your eyes a color to match, and your entire disposition screamed shy. But your eyes were big and kind, and they held a glint of glee that never seemed to disappear. And you were cute, in a way that nobody seemed to notice except for me.

"I'll have a large strawberry cone, please."

You wrinkled your nose, the distaste obvious on your features. I wanted to ask you why you were opposed to the taste of strawberries in ice cream, but I felt a direct comment of such would be too forward. After all, we hadn't spoken besides the few pencil borrowings and asking of what was for homework. Wouldn't it be odd if I treated you as a friend?

I watched as your hands-tan and callused-pushed the ice cream scooper into the pail. It moved into a ball of cream and you shoveled it up and onto my cone. This action was repeated multiple times before the cone became a tower of strawberry dessert. You reached beside you and grabbed a napkin, wrapping it around the base of the cone, and handed it to me.

Our fingers touched.