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Pistachio Afternoon June 15, 2012

Posted by Mark Folse in Fortin Street, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Rattling through the metallic junk drawer: assorted batteries , dull pocket knives with frozen tools, chargers to forgotten things. random parts to things you can’t bring yourself to throw away. For want of a Danish twist lock. In there is that rattling custodian’s key chain full of keys for old doors: horrible room mates, the better one up the block, good jobs and bad, girl friends’ kept out of spite. All those doors are closed.

A brass and stainless dream journal, an afternoon cleaning the attic until you find the comic books but you have have pressing business, the slowly encroaching walls of your studio apartment You have forgotten what you were looking for. You put the ring back in the drawer. You take the one lonely key from your pocket, still attached the the landlords plastic tag. You turn it in the lock in the door leading out to dreary, dreamy street. Turn either direction, past the rows of locks.

Two blocks down is the park. A beautiful woman stands next to an ice cream cart. She has just ordered pistachio, your favorite flavor. Licking the green trickles on the ring-less fingers of her left hand while fumbling coins, purse and wallet with the other her keys tip out onto the ground at your feet. She stands there a moment considering the physics of dissolving cone, keys, coins, purse. difficult trajectories, the unsteadiness of summer ice cream. You bend over and retrieve her keys. Before she can say thanks you order a double scoop. She never does thank you, but she smiles.

Across the path you find benches and a fountain, swans, possibilities unlocked by a pistachio cone. Somewhere up the street is your house key, but you are not about to notice that now. When her single scope is gone, you lean your double towards her. It’s going to melt anyway, you say. She hesitates then takes a generous lap with her tongue from the collapsing cone, shaping it back into balance, wiping the dribble from her chin with a finger, laughing.

Few things are better than a first kiss. Pistachio ice cream cones are one.

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