Yesterday, The Fella and I went on a (blessedly rare) trip to the land of Big Box Stores. Although our errand was fruitless, it did provide us with an excuse to spend ten and twenty minutes at a time in wastefully, profligately, despicably chilly air-conditioned blocks of concrete, only to goggle at each other in genuine shock when we stepped out again into the brain-cooking heat radiating off the blacktop lots.
The cold felt good, but returning to the brutal reality of the heat was almost worse than never leaving it.
Just as I started slumping bonelessly into the truck’s bench seat, The Fella surprised me with our last stop: an ice cream parlor. He has a milkshake; I have a float. We both chose orange sherbet, recent determined by an independent panel of coolologists to be the coolingest of all the flavors.
The Fella is full of surprises, roughly five percent of them involving ice cream.