I continue to tongue the inside of the ice cream bowl. It’s been empty for hours, but I cannot let her know that. Again, I say, “Vhy tont oo ghoo doo dah shoppig mah buh yoosheff?” It’s hard to speak while doing this. “What?” she says. And again I go silent for ten minutes. Her siege succeeds. I remove the bowl in surrender. She pounces, “Honey! Will you drive me the mall? I need to buy expensive things with your credit card.” I explain, “Sorry dear, but I cannot. You see, I secretly laced my ice cream with a narcotic that’s sure to kill me if I do not quickly seek the proper medical attention. No, I’m afraid I only have just enough life left to drive myself to the hospital and hope they can relieve me of this horrid ailment.” Later, in the ICU, I eat some ice cream containing the antidote. I lick the bowl clean. “Now can we go?” she says. “Now we can go,” I say.
©2013 Eric Adams