One (Sarah Crossan)

Dessert

Grammie is late

so we head for ice cream,

Jon and Yasmeen pressed up close behind us.

It isn’t like New York City here

or even Hoboken

where people are used to seeing oddballs:

the man who rides his bike

dressed like Batman,

the obese belly dancer

on the corner of Park and Sixth,

and us,

the glued-together twins

who hobble around

on crutches

clutching each other.

In Montclair we are new and

unexpected.

But still,

we try to focus,

our hands

pressed against the freezer glass,

our eyes

on rainbow rows of ice cream.

I want vanilla yoghurt.

Tippi chooses coconut cream

with chocolate chips.

Tippi and I share a lot

—we always share dinner—

but rarely,

if ever,

a dessert.