Ice Cream

🍦

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in that specific way only Eliot seems to notice, low and humming like a fly trapped in a jar. The shop smells faintly of waffle cone batter, bleach, and overripe strawberries. One couple sits by the window, more interested in each other’s faces than their half-melted sundaes.

Eliot stands behind the counter, arm-deep in the napkin bin, restocking with the kind of exaggerated care that says, I could do this blindfolded, but I’m pretending it’s very important so I don’t have to talk to anyone. The register ticks over softly behind him. The freezer huffs out a sigh of cold.

He straightens a stack of cone sleeves, wipes a nonexistent smear off the counter, checks the clock.

5:13 pm

Seventeen more minutes. Then he can lock the doors, flick the sign, and disappear into the blissful silence of post-shift numbness.

The bell above the front door jingles.

Eliot’s hand freezes mid-reach. His body reacts first: a quick internal flinch followed by the automatic straighten of posture, the practiced shift into customer face. He turns, already mustering the usual greeting—

And stops.

The boy who enters isn’t what Eliot expects. Not a tourist. Not one of the regulars. He’s alone, no phone out, no fumble at the door. He moves like he’s been here before, or somewhere just like it.

He’s wearing an oversized flannel jacket over a black t-shirt, jeans rolled once at the ankle. Dark curls, wind-blown. There’s something careless about him, but curated too, like a photograph pretending it wasn’t posed.

He walks up to the counter, glancing only once at the menu above. “Lavender honey,” he says. Voice low, clear. No upspeak. No question.

Eliot’s brain stutters.

“...One scoop?”

The boy tilts his head. “Two. Cone.”

Eliot nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like the stranger’s eyes aren’t a shade too sharp, or that his hands don’t have chipped black nail polish on every other finger.

“Right. Cone. Yeah.”

He turns to scoop, immediately hating how loud the freezer lid sounds when he opens it. The lavender honey sits near the back, half-frozen and delicate in color—pale purple with flecks of vanilla bean. It smells like summer and something floral, something too gentle for a boy who looks like he belongs in a cigarette ad.

“You’re still open, right?” the boy asks, tone unreadable.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, and the word comes out weirdly fast. He clears his throat. “Yeah, till five-thirty.”

He turns back with the cone, holding it like an offering. Their fingers don’t touch—Eliot’s careful—but for a moment he swears the boy’s gaze flicks to his hands, lingers, then vanishes.

“That’ll be two seventy.”

The boy slides a five across the counter. Eliot fumbles the till open, gives change, prints a receipt. The silence stretches. The boy takes one lick of the ice cream, then glances toward the door.

And just like that, he turns and walks out.

No small talk. No smile. No thank-you.

Just the echo of the bell again.

Eliot stands still for a long moment, receipt still in hand, ice cream scoop suspended midair, the freezer sighing behind him like it, too, is confused.

He looks at the clock.

5:17 p.m.

🍦

The receipt in Eliot’s hand feels damp at the edges, curling slightly where his fingers press. He sets it aside, slowly, as though the wrong movement might trigger a reset of the last two minutes, like a glitch in the simulation. He doesn’t even bother pocketing the change. The till stays cracked open. He just stares at the door.

Outside, the boy walks away without hurry, cone in hand, licking the lavender honey like it’s a cigarette between his lips—absently, almost bored. His boots are loud against the wet pavement, one of them untied. He disappears around the corner.

Eliot blinks hard and turns back to the counter.

“Cool,” he mutters to no one. “Sure. That’s a thing that happened.”

He closes the till, wipes the counter again even though it’s spotless, and opens the freezer to re-smooth the surface of the lavender tub, because it’s slightly uneven and now it’s going to bother him all night.

Just as he’s placing the lid back on, the bell chimes again.

He flinches—immediately thinking, No. He wouldn’t come back. Would he?

But it’s not the boy. It’s Naomi.

Her entrance is not quiet. It never is. She kicks the door open with her combat boot and calls out before the bell’s finished jingling.

“Please tell me we’re still open. I’m in desperate need of mint chocolate and validation.”

Eliot exhales. “You’re late.”

“I had rehearsal. I was dying dramatically under a plastic tarp while someone threw fake rain on me.” She hops up onto a stool at the counter and plops her oversized bag down like it owes her money. “Anyway, spill.”

“Spill what?”

She narrows her eyes. “You’ve got ‘I just got emotionally sucker-punched by someone hot’ face.”

“I do not have that face.”

“You one-hundred-percent do. It’s like your resting face, but with more internalized panic. What happened?”

Eliot pretends to focus very intently on wiping down a spoon. “Nothing. Just... a customer.”

Naomi stares at him. He can feel it.

“A customer,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans in over the counter, eyes glittering with mischief. “Describe this customer. Vibe? Astrological aura? Tragic jawline?”

Eliot shakes his head, still not looking at her. “It’s nothing. He came in, ordered lavender honey, paid cash, left. End of story.”

Naomi gasps. “Oh my God. Was he mysterious?”

“He was a person.”

“Eliot. Come on. I know your crush voice. It’s the same one you used when you found out the drummer from Yearbook Suicide was bi.”

“I don’t have a crush.”

“Okay. What did he look like?”

Eliot finally gives her a look. “Like someone who wouldn’t talk to me on purpose.”

Naomi sits back, triumphant. “So hot, then.”

He sighs. “Go eat your mint chocolate.”

She grins and hops off the stool, sauntering toward the display case. “I’m telling you right now, if this turns into a summer-long unspoken queer yearning thing, I will start taking notes for a screenplay.”

“You are the worst.”

“I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” she says brightly. “Also, we’re making him a code name. What about Cone Boy?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Fine. Lavender Daddy it is.”

“Naomi—”

But she’s already rummaging in her bag for her debit card, humming to herself.

Eliot glances back toward the door, just once, and then at the receipt still sitting on the counter where he left it.

5:17 p.m.

Exactly.

🍦

Naomi crunches loudly through her cone like it’s a personal vendetta.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, mouth full of mint-chocolate aggression.

“No,” Eliot replies, flipping chairs onto tables one by one.

She ignores him, of course.

“Do you ever think—like, if you hadn’t been here today, if you’d taken the day off or died or spontaneously combusted, whatever—do you think he’d still have come in?”

Eliot stops mid-chair.

“Who?” he asks flatly.

She stares at him like he’s stupid.

He sighs, returning the chair to the table. “I don’t know. Probably.”

Naomi shrugs and spins slowly on her stool. “I mean, you can pretend it’s random, but we both know better. You’re a sucker for patterns.”

“It’s a small town,” he mutters. “We get bored. People wander in.”

“People don’t wander in at 5:17 p.m. and order lavender honey unless they’re trying to unlock your tragic protagonist kink.”

Eliot throws a damp rag at her. She catches it one-handed and tosses it in the sink.

“Just saying,” she adds. “There’s a story brewing, Farris. I can smell it.”

Eliot doesn’t respond. He’s suddenly very busy checking the register totals, even though he already checked them ten minutes ago.

Naomi watches him for a beat longer, then hops off the counter.

“Alright, I’m out. Don’t dream about him too hard. But if you do, I want every detail tomorrow.”

She grabs her bag, winks at him, and shoves open the front door with a dramatic bow.

The bell jingles. The door closes. Silence settles.

Eliot lets out a breath, long and quiet, and turns off the lights one by one. The overheads buzz out. Only the freezer and register lights remain, casting the shop in soft, pale blue.

He walks back behind the counter, wiping down the last surface. His eyes land on the receipt—still sitting where he left it.

He picks it up.

Lavender honey. Two scoops. Waffle cone.

Paid: £5.00

Change given: £2.30

Time: 17:17

Exactly.

Eliot stares at the slip.

Then, carefully, he folds it in half, and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.