Dripping Ice Cream
My parents were smiling at me as they held my hand and took me to get ice cream. We stood in line at the vendor, a nice guy in a carnival suit underneath an umbrella over a tin-looking wheeled ice cream carrier machine. It was hot out, and I was sweating.
“What kind would you like?” he asked me.
“We'll take three vanilla,” Dad told the vendor.
What else would we order?
Dad handed me my cone and we walked back to the truck.
“Make sure not to spill any on the upholstery, alright?” he told me as we sat inside. I nodded and he started up the truck and pulled out. Him and Mom started talking about boring stuff that I tuned out right away as I licked at my cone and looked outside. I had my window open and it was still hot, even though the A/C was on.
The cone started dripping. I kept licking at it to keep it in place, but the drops slid down my fingers and fell onto the seat, leaving bright white little stains. I rubbed at them and they looked gone, but a few minutes later they dried white and there was nothing I could do.
The truck stopped, and when we got out I was worried Dad would yell at me for staining the seat, but when he opened my door all he said was that I'd left my window open.