***
P.O.V.
[HE]
Do you want to know how I spent the night of that day, after eating the disgusting ice cream?
A word
Fatal.
I kept the horrifying taste of ice cream on my palate all that passed that afternoon. My neck suffered from torticollis, due to my head being stuck in the toilet expelling what clearly shouldn't have entered my digestive system.
Even the vomit that was spitting from my mouth was cold and icy cold. As was its disgusting cause.
My mother, seeing my state of health vanishing in the toilet, rushed to call Dr. Juan—neighbor and possible stepfather—if luck turned against me—which he was doing at that precise moment.
Lying face down, I watched from the side as the Doctor introduced a strange liquid into the injector.
Yes, as you are reading it.
It was going to be sticking in the ass.
My ass
Do you understand what that means? TRUE?
Don't make fun of my destiny when I'm going to confess that that injection hurt like hell.
And guess who was all to blame for my suffering?
Yes, that's right, all thanks to the failed invention of the aesthetic girl.
Honestly, I was a person who was not known for being a believer in the Lord, Lady or inhabitant residing in heaven, who claimed to be an observer of the sins of mortals on earth. But to tell the truth, as the situation was painted in my stomach, head and ass I decided to join my mother's prayers.
Begging who would listen to me in the afterlife than that strange aesthetic girl. She will stop being so stupid and put her marble brain to work, so that she will not make such a mistake again that could have cost me my life.
Over time I understood that she wasn't stupid, and yes, although she unknowingly hurt me physically, mentally and psychologically, she was smart enough to give me ice cream for dessert every afternoon.
But now, I was blind, frustrated and angry for the simple fact of not understanding - at that moment - why it occurred to her to give me what I hated so much? I couldn't find a logical explanation for it at that moment, it was all confusing, strange and extremely new to me.
The owners of the place, Don Ernesto and Doña Camila, were aware and knew perfectly well that what for them was their greatest dish on the menu was what I hated most in the human world, in the multiverse, the entire galaxy if you wanted.
Even in a world parallel to ours, where I was not as I was at that time, I assure you that I would change everything about myself, my humor, my attitude, my ways of looking at life, but the only thing I would not change would be the inevitable fact of not liking ice cream.
After having spent a good season inside a juvenile rehabilitation center, completing therapy away from civilization. I set foot in that place again—which is still the same as before today—and from the first moment my ass took a seat on the corner table next to my mother I made it very clear to them—too specific I would say —to the owners that the ice cream for dessert in the cafeteria was not to my liking.
It should be noted that I was not a capricious one of those who do not like a food and served, cut or cooked in a different way they like it.
My case was particularly neutral.
If you gave me a melted ice cream milkshake I didn't like it
If you offered me ice cream with a cookie, I would clean the cookies with a napkin to erase any flavor of the cold dessert, and if my palate perceived any drop, I would not eat
If you prepared either cones, tubs, popsicles, ice cream scoops, I simply didn't like them.
So in summary, not only did I wean myself and avoid trying the ice cream in the cafeteria, but all those ice creams that could be sold in any ice cream parlor, walking local, kiosk, warehouse, shopping center, the classic ice cream carts and even the little boy scouts that offered ice cream on weekends that I found for sale in the city.
I simply considered it—and I still consider it, although more controlled—that this was the most disgusting cold dessert—not to exaggerate—disgusting and without a drop of being delicious that could be eaten.
Had I told you that I hated all things sweet?
Right. But I couldn't hate her when she appeared out of nowhere and slipped into my monotonous routine, with an overdose of sweetness that at the end of the story ended up making me sick with the simple fact of continuing to exist.
And, maybe you won't believe me but today I don't regret it.
I never regretted—of course after growing up a bit—going back to the cafeteria the morning after a night from hell in my room.
Remembering the pain in my head, neck, neck, stomach and ass, I wondered, anxious to know, when Don Ernesto and Doña Camila would deign in their lives to change the name of the place? That was not good for the business at all.
At that time, before reaching this part where I told you my version of the story, I wanted to think and believe that this was the necessary impulse to enter the premises that day with the cheap excuse of having a very serious and detailed conversation with the owners regarding the name of their business.
But here between two, I was actually a bit stubborn and masochistic at the time —I still am but with company— so the real reason I went to the place was because of the aesthetic girl and her compulsive obsession with ice cream.
Reason that I never admitted, until this narration. You're lucky to know, huh?
I took a seat in the same place—yes, the corner table next to the enormous glass window—and without even having raised my voice to ask for my classic order of sugar-free cookies, from the back of the place, he appeared radiant, smiling and enthusiastic ice cream bluish.
And what if you guess what he brought with him?
So, it is ladies and gentlemen, dearest readers.
I brought ice cream.
A container full of that cold, frozen, disgusting dessert on top of the tray.
I didn't have to make much effort to focus on the saucer. Because to tell the truth, she wasn't that tall that we can say, and by "not that tall" I mean that the bluish girl was of average height but next to me she looked like an Umpalumpla, one of those who assisted Willy Woonka in his Chocolate factory.
Only here, it wasn't chocolate, but ice cream and strawberry.
How did I know?
Easy, it's called "Intuition" and I use it quite often.
The ice cream came straight at me wrapped in an intense and bright pink color. I cocked my head, like those puppies in a state of confusion, because my intuition suffered a little mental conflict.
I wasn't sure if the flavor was strawberry or raspberry. Although believe me when I tell you that the difference in flavors I was not interested in discovering in the least.
—It seems that you have confused the client—I commented when observing the enough closeness between her, the ice cream, the table and me. "I hate ice cream," I pronounced slowly, each syllable carefully in case she had any doubts. She tilted her head and smiled. "I just don't like it, I don't like it and just today I don't have the desire or the effort to try it." So you can take it with you. Thanks.” I looked away, jaded and frustrated at that repellent attitude of hers.
He didn't seem to care in the least about my opinion. And I confirmed it at the moment when his laugh echoed through the walls of the premises, entering my ears and those of the other clients, who without cause or reason fit into the place.
More than one diner stopped what he was doing to pass his eyes to my table and his strange attitude, which confused me and the rest of the people present.
To this day I can assure you that that unexpected laugh that escaped from his lips, resounding in many ears in the local, that afternoon was the product and consequence of my bitter and unfunny comment.
"Courtesy of the house," he said and took a seat in the chair across from the table. I looked at her strangely.
What the hell was he doing?
Apparently she realized my lack of understanding so with a slight gesture with her hand she indicated the bowl of ice cream.
Yes, you will be thinking Is it what created what is it?
Well let me tell you that yes, if it is what you think it is
She had sat at my table, in that chair only and exclusively to watch me eat the ice cream from the container.
What I was missing, right?
An ice cream babysitter. —That's what I named her just for leisure— I swear I waited patiently for her to decide to leave and leave, abandoning the disastrous idea that she ate ice cream.
But what do you think?
It never left. Or at least not from the table.
I saw myself between a rock and a hard place, forced by those honey eyes to taste the dessert in front of me.
And that I did.
And I did until the truth came out.
With each bite that entered my mouth, crossed my tongue, went down my throat and reached my stomach, there were inevitable causes to explode in vomit right there on the table.
I made a masterful, powerful effort and I even dare to say that this effort was a support sent from beyond to resist and not make a fool of myself.
As you can imagine, it was extremely disgusting for me to swallow the ice cream. Now, imagine me suffering with a scoop of strawberry ice cream combined with the vomit that wanted to come out of me.
You did it? Did you imagine how I felt at that moment, sitting at that table and with her right in front of me?
I hope so, because that will make you be on my side throughout this process that I am going to tell you throughout the story.
I swallowed the last bite with difficulty.
"I'm done," I exclaimed exalted, carelessly dropping the small spoon into the already empty container and without any drop of the ice cream that was now in my digestive system.
You might think I was childish that day but after I finished all that ice cream it was like I just broke a rule, disobeyed my parents, won the marathon or set the world record.
For not being used to the icy dessert and its taste, eating it and not leaving a drop in the bowl felt like a triumph, a victory worthy of a medal, a trophy.
Or like those challenges that had to be recorded in the wonderful world record book.
Until that moment, I had completely forgotten about the presence of the bluish young woman in front. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I only turned my attention back to her when she let out several low laughs looking at me happily.
Yes, she was happy to see me suffer.
Well not so drastically but partly yes, heh, heh.
You'll understand why I say that.
After the laughs—which I thought were unnecessarily cute—with her little porcelain hand, she picked up one of the classic rosy napkins placed inside the napkin holder, aka my game cart. Along with his pen, he began to write on it.
He slipped the napkin delicately, smiled and then vanished.
I was—I still am—extremely curious, so as soon as she disappeared from my field of vision, I grabbed the napkin as a sort of note, unfolded it, and read it.
{A little sugar never hurt anyone}
But what she didn't know was that it hurt me. She always hurt me, only I avoided realizing it just because it was her.
I got up from my chair and left the room in a daze. By then those words had no meaning to me, not until I found out.
I looked out of the corner of my eye and there she was standing, smiling from ear to ear, occupying almost all of her tanned face, watching me as I left.
The first thing I asked myself then was what the hell was that bluish girl causing in me?
I honestly didn't know why I ended up eating the disgusting ice cream when she was the one who served it to me, and when the rest of the world did, I rejected it.
There was something, I don't know what. That little detail that I ignored was what freed me from my ideals by throwing them away, and made me eat every ice cream she could think of.
That same I don't know what, continues to have the same effect on me.
I'll tell you something about this story. Only because I liked you enough to give you a little spoilers.
Only two girls in my life have ever gotten me to try ice cream. Whatever flavor it is, whatever color suits them, but only the two of them have that, let's call it power? Influence? I still can't describe it.
I will be childish but for me that magic that they have is not possessed by anyone else on the planet.
I thought of the bluish aesthetic girl obsessed with ice cream and me.
Seeing him from one point of view she didn't know her, she didn't even know her name. It was not part of my life, it was not in my heart, it was not my family. He didn't even classify her as someone important.
It was simply nothing and at the same time it was everything.
And here I start to make my observations
first observation
She was the unknown candy lover, wife of ice cream and daughter of sugar.