The same lady that I've seen the past 3 nights in a row came in tonight. She's slouched down like the last few times I've seen her. As usual, as soon as she places her order, my previous perception that she is in a bad mood vanishes. Her entire posture changes, and her face is lit up with glee.
"A kids' Maple Walnut in a dish," she says. I nod, but I already knew her order. It's been the same thing every night this week.
"Coming right up," I tell her (before cringing at my cliché choice of words).
It's busy, so I grab a cup and jog over to the Maple Walnut sitting at the other end of the store. I'm just digging the scoop into the waiting ice cream when she runs up beside me.
She cranes her neck over the freezer. The look of bliss that she'd just been displaying has turned into fear. "Are you sure that's the right one?" she asks me.
I twist my body from inside the freezer so that I can look at her from the side. "Yes, ma'am I'm sure," I tell her patiently.
"Really?" she says. I can tell she doesn't trust me.
I nod. Looking again at the ice cream, I see that it is the same colour, the same tub and in the same position as the previous times that she has ordered it. "I promise," I assure her, but I can tell she still isn't convinced.
Finally, I shrug my shoulders and scoop what I know to be Maple Walnut. I hand the cup to her and she seems appeased.
There must be something about ice cream girls that warrant suspicion. You never know when we're going to slip you the wrong flavour. I bet it's my uniform visor shading my face that gives me a way.
Watch out: I can't be trusted.
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