Linger
By John Haymaker
Denver. Mid-winter. Bitter cold. Snow. Five inches already. Wet at times. Through a window you see the windward side of trees grow thick with white bark, and the neighbor's garage roof begins to sag. You refuse to be trapped and head outside, your boots tramping through the sticky blanket on the drive. The wind howls and blows so cold it stings. You embrace it as it embraces you.
You should want hot chocolate or to crowd around a fireplace, but another winter urge settles in. You find yourself in your 4×4, slipping, sliding, skidding down side streets, then up main street across downtown, until a silo appears in the uptown environment. Last winter, the first time you saw this unusual edifice, it was so out of place, your mind raced to process the shape and the florescent lighting emanating within — an alien mothership? A wormhole? But this year, you know as you pass by: it’s a monumental replica of a rusty tin milk can only Paul Bunyan might lift or Babe, his blue ox, mange to kick aside.
You park just up the street, and find you’re not alone at this creamery. Customers crowd the daily flavors menu, chattering likes and dislikes; others huddle near gas heaters, warming hands, savoring scoops from paper cups or atop oversized waffle cones, everyone happy — one boy in fur gloves so giddy he does a handstand. And you don’t feel silly anymore for coming, lining up behind thirty others just as the snow eases up. You envy the lucky ones ahead of you at the bays of windows where fluorescent lamps bathe apron-clad servers in surreal glow as they abide customers with sample flavors on wooden spoons. While waiting, you review the outlandishly new flavors on the menu, like agave pine nut or artichoke cheesecake, persimmon mint or prickly pear butter brickle.
Then you’re up. The clerk knows you and readies a scoop. Indecisive, you ask for samples — maybe the pomegranate crunch. They’re out, but he suggests the toffee and the lemon squirt instead. After riding out the mouthfeel of the full-fat cream of each, you opt again for chocolate and pistachio.
You haven’t even paid but are already licking the double, extra-large scoops topping your cone, resisting the urge to bite in. This indulgence during the dog days might cool and soothe you, but in frigid temperatures, it seems icy hot — your body isn’t sure but seems content either way. Like homeopathy, the ice cream fights like with like, cold with cold, normalizing the chill outside and helping you acclimate.
The snow picks up again, and you hold the cone at arm’s length. The flurry of white flakes sticks to the ice cream and clings for a moment before melting and assuming the color beneath, blending in chameleon-like. You hope the snow might replenish the cone full all night.
A neon sign glows overhead in light the exact color of a blue gas flame. It’s the former O’Linger mortuary, but the O is burned out, so at night the remaining cursive letters beckon you: Linger. You do, and you can’t help but recall a great aunt who survives only through the tale of her childhood winter relish for ice cream, much like yours. Just like now, overcome with an urge, she rushed out in a snowstorm toward the barn with a pocketful of sugar, a wooden spoon and vat of cream.
She sheltered under the eaves of the barn while mixing snow with cream, sprinkling sugar, and stirring, stirring in the dim light, unaware of the yellow tinge all around her. She had one final taste of earthly joy before a week of delirium set in, then death.
The sudden thought chills you. You shield your cone from the snow, wondering whether pollution locked in the snow might be enough to sicken you — or whether your winter craving will spike your LDL. Such rumination doesn’t curb your appetite though. This isn’t your first mid-winter ice cream run; who can say it won’t be your last? Linger.
END
Author Bio: John Haymaker is a LGBTQIA+ writer whose stories and nonfiction appear in various online journals, including Quibble Lit, The Bookends Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Cosmic Double, Across the Margin and forthcoming in Real Fiction Forum’s Accidental Correspondent. His Chinese to English translations appear online at Bewildering Stories. John writes as an American expat from Portugal, where he lives with his partner of 29 years. Learn more at https://johnhaymaker.com.