Pistachio Ice Cream

Suzan tapped her fingers on the table — one hand holding up her chin.

"Can you call her again for me, please?"

"It's been five minutes Suz-"

"Please."

The phone rang through. "Did you want me to leave her a message?"

"No." I could tell she was anxious. Anyone in her shoes would have been.

We went for a walk. A very long walk. That day was hot and muggy. I could hear it in the uncomfortable songs of the cicadas — the kind of heat that assaults all of your senses.

The anticipation was deafening.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head.

"It's hot." I was melting. I honestly hoped some small talk would distract us both. I was terribly wrong.

She nodded.

"Ice cream?"

She nodded.

We walked some more until our clothes were heavy with sweat. As soon as we got to the ice cream place, I let out a loud gasp of relief. The lone worker in the shop laughed to herself.

"Hot day?" She said with a smirk.

"Oh God, I was not made for this kind of heat." Suzan seemed to be in some far-off distant land. I knew which one.

"Pistachio?" I confirmed. She nodded.

We ate our ice cream in silence. I don't even think Suzan really knew what we were doing or where we were. She seemed to have checked out of everything. The least I could do was stick by her side. It was only a matter of time.

BUZZZZZ. BUZZZZZZ. BUZZZZZ.

I had never seen someone pick up their phone so fast. Suzan's shaking leg started to make our table wobble.

"Yeah? mhmm, mhmm, mmmm, no. Thank you."

Her face was expressionless. Shock.

"An-" I struggled to find words through the lump in my throat.

"That was the detective." Suzan's voice slipped away.

"Oh. Let me take you home."

The summer heat was relentless. A heatwave of all things — record-breaking is how they said it on the news.

We got a taxi home that day. I thanked God we didn't have to walk back. Suzan never ate pistachio ice cream again. I don't blame her. We weren't made for that kind of heat.

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Author's Note

Flash fiction has always scared me due to the word count restriction. This year, I am putting a challenge for myself to stop seeing the word count restriction as a restriction. I am starting to see it as more of an opportunity and space to grow.

I have always admired writers who can tell incredible stories in such few words. I believe this kind of storytelling is a beautiful skill, and I hope that I can grow in it as well. I have been greatly influenced by the short stories of Ernest Hemingway and Neil Geiman's Smoke and Mirrors in high-school, I also immersed myself in the works of Edgar Allan Poe.

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