The end of the world

It happened last summer, on a day as hot as all the others. Scorching. People flocked from their cars to the safety of our air-conditioned shop in search of their personal favourites. I gladly stood behind the counter with my ice cream scoop, ready to serve and satisfy.

It just so happens that that particular day was wrought with misfortune. Misfortune in the sense that the shop had been swamped the entire week. Misfortune in the sense that we sold more ice cream than any other period. Misfortune in the sense that we were out of the two most important flavours: Moose Tracks and Peanut Butter Mudpuddle.

On average every 5 minutes, a hopeful customer approached the counter and ordered their usual: either Moose Tracks, Peanut Butter Mudpuddle or both of them together. That was when I had to deliver the news of sorrow. “Sorry, we’re out.”

My manager came to my rescue, assuring the customers, “We have another shipment coming in tomorrow.”

But, alas, it wasn’t enough. The ones brave enough to carry on choose ice creams of similar delicacies; either Rocky 17 or Chocolate Fudge Brownie, but most were unable to carry on. With a look of pain (I wouldn’t lie about this), they left the store to return home in their grieving.

It was that day that I realized if the end of the world were ever near; I wouldn’t be the one to volunteer to deliver the  news.