Duped

The store was approached by a foreign couple. Being somewhat unobservant, I couldn’t put my finger on what race they were from. Either way, I caught wind of quite the accent (although I couldn’t tell you which kind) as the lady opened her mouth to order. She asked for a kids’ size in a waffle cone, which I produced with pleasure. She mused loudly and clicked her tongue at the size. Her husband laughed heartily.

 I took the opportunity to ask him what he’d like. He asked for the same flavours (Mocha Almond Fudge and Scotch Toffee) in a small waffle cone. “But I expect it to be bigger than hers!” he insisted in the accent that I still wasn’t sure of, wagging his finger at the freezer I was bending into.

“Yes, sir, I wouldn’t try to dupe you,” I promised. I was just about finished with his cone. When I was just shaping up the sides, however, the ice cream seemed to have a better idea. Instead of forming into a pretty scoop atop the waffle, it decided to plummet to the ground. Conveniently, it fell square on my toes, exposed through my open-toed sandles. I stopped for a moment to get used to the cold, melting liquid seep around my toes and make its way down to the ball of my heel. Just the way I like it.

After I’d topped up his cone (to ensure that it was bigger than his wife’s, as he had requested), he paid and left the shop with a smile on his face.

As I watched the couple find a spot at one of the picnic tables in front, I grabbed a rag and scrubbed the Scotch Toffee from my foot. I couldn’t suppress the feeling that I was the one who had been duped. He must have been an Italian.