Vanilla

Fifty Four

[Vanilla]

"Good evening."

He shoved the key straight up the lock in a jump. "Fucking—"

Turning made him stop and squint in the darkness in which I was standing in, at the bottom of the steps up to the back door of the ice cream parlour. Frankly speaking, I would have found his face mildly amusing had it not been for the seriousness of our circumstance and the string of tension, pulled taut between us, ready to snap.

The accurate term was ambush. Leroy had no intention to be seeing me so soon after an ugly escalation of matters in which he'd quite literally run away from, and to be confronted so soon was perhaps an underhanded but necessary manner for the issue to be resolved.

He appeared speechless, standing at the top of the steps with the keys dangling off a hooked index. The flicker in his eyes warranted some form of explanation in countering disbelief.

"I can see you're surprised," I sighed, wisps of mist escaping from behind my scarf. "'How did he know I was coming out from the back door?' Well, most stores lock their front doors after opening hours, and this being an ice cream parlour, I was certain that preparations for the next day's batch of ice cream had to be done, which meant that someone had to be in the store itself for the next hour or so even after closing and the only exit would be from the back. Judging from the timing of your shift, I deduced two possibilities. One, cleaning duty, and two, you being in charge of the ice cream base. Factoring in your personality and the way you ran off a few hours ago, I thought the chances of you opting for the latter were higher. Nevertheless, I'd eliminated all chances of not being able to see you by coming early and waiting out in the cold just in case you were the anomaly and somehow chose cleaning over making ice cream bases and would leave right after locking up the front. Though now, I see that my initial prediction had been spot on. And 'how did he know where the back door was?' Google Maps. So. With that out of the way," I paused, having provided a clear and detailed account. "How was it? Your ice cream."

His reaction, delayed and oddly tame, was to finally start descending the steps to level our eyes and then, saying nothing, removed his wine knitted scarf and added that to whatever garment that was already around my neck. I could barely speak, being wrapped up like an unwieldly dumpling, and struggled to make myself heard in a flurry of blushing embarrassment.

"I—Leroy! I-if this is your way of asking whether or not I'm cold from standing out here, it does not work. Take back your scarf. I don't need it."

This idiot had the nerve to roll his eyes before unwrapping the piece of clothing and relieving me of my dumpling-ness. In return, I was able to reach into my tote bag and produce single-use hand warmers which I then slipped into his pockets.

"I had these prepared. They must make a lot of money from producing these things, especially since they practically run out of steam every twenty minutes or so. I've used five in the past hour sticking them all over the insides of my coat. Not including the ones in my pockets."

He laughed, and the sound itself made it seem like he was nearing the end of a three-day triathlon. Which probably did not exist.

I met his gaze and it was a small, flickering flame. Constantly. Struggling against the wind. The very tug on his lips made for a smile that was sad and at no point in my knowing of Leroy had I ever identified, in a single glance, that fearfully simple emotion. He'd been upset, disappointed and at times aggrieved but sad was... sad was a slow burning flame. Dying.