“If you love me,” Nina says, “you’ll get me ice cream while you’re at the store.”
It was a small request which I neglected to fulfill.
“You forgot the ice cream?” she pouted to me when I returned, apparently forgetting the qualification.
I did not leave the ice cream on purpose. In fact, I scouted different flavors on my way through the frozen-foods section, considering which she might prefer: plain vanilla paired with an exotic dessert; one of the classic Ben & Jerry’s flavors, maybe Cherry Garcia; perhaps this local sorbet claiming to be Blackberry Cabernet flavor, would that qualify as ice cream? I don’t eat ice cream myself. I thought about how Jerry Garcia wanted to sue them over the flavor, even though the profits were allegedly going to charity. Then he went off and started that line of stupid fucking ties.
I walked around the rest of the store thinking about that. Then I forgot about it and got “Uncle John’s Band” stuck in my head. I was singing it to myself when I loaded the rest of the stuff into the car, “their motto is don’t tread on me.” Then I drove home.
Nina is singing to herself now, something in Spanish. I’m out on the balcony having a smoke while she puts the things away. I’m looking down at the people out together on the esplanade on spread towels, throwing balls, actually flying kites.
She never asks me to do something that way again.