Ice Cream

by Allison Moody

collection, dove, lick, popular, short, noise

I stare at them, this collection of blonde, sun-kissed perfection, and clumsily lick my rapidly melting cone. A single renegade drip of vanilla splashes onto the hot blacktop, its sizzle silenced by the heartbreaking noise of their laughter. Their legs, long and lean, sail back and forth underneath the dropped down tailgate. I stare at my short, chubby legs and sigh.

These girls are everything. I want to touch them, to feel their hot skin in my hands. I want to kiss them, taste them, ingest their joy. Instead, my eyes fall to where the drops of vanilla have pooled on my thigh. For a split second, they entwine to form the shape of a tiny dove before sliding down the inside of my dimpled thigh. I shove the remaining ice cream in my mouth and swallow hard. As the brain freeze sets in, I close my eyes and face the scalding sun. I am at  peace with the knowledge that their lives will never be mine. I will never know their elite happiness. I will never be popular.