Raspberry Ripple

There was a man Sana kept an eye on. He was tall, handsome and had broad shoulders that pulled his t-shirt taut against his chest, outlining his muscles as if it was liquid fabric. The man seemed to possess a black-themed wardrobe, except for the silver link chain that hung around his neck and the silver stud on his left ear. No matter how warm it was, he never removed his black leather jacket.

The most surprising thing about him was how young he was. Even though he carried himself like an experienced man on a secret mission, he was around her age — twenty-three or twenty-four. His voice was unique, the kind that left an aftertaste that was potent of sparking an addiction. The careful balance between sharpness and bluntness and ice and fire made him unforgettable. His piercing black-eyed gaze and his inability to be friendly would have posed as a tempting challenge for Sana to conquer if not for one annoying habit of his.

Most of the days, the man came in wounded. Some days, she wouldn't be able to see the cut but some days it would be right there in the open with a sad excuse of a handkerchief holding it together. He left blood behind as if he was marking his territory.

She hated it.

She wanted to strangle him and his smug smirk and his unnecessarily sharp jaws.

But he was loyal.

He came in every day and had a scoop of strawberry cheesecake. He sat on one of her white chairs, letting the wind tease his hair and leisurely polishing the dessert off the bowl. As of the day before yesterday, he had switched teams to raspberry ripple.

He was usually the last customer for the day, giving her time to observe him for more time than necessary. No matter how late it was, he made it a point to show up. Sana was irritated at the consistency because she was starting to wait for him before closing shop.

"I love the mango vanilla crumble flavour. Where do you source your mangoes from?" The middle-aged customer asked her, whipping out his fancy leather wallet to pay.

"I have a tie-up with a very talented and authentic farm owner," she said without divulging too much information. "Thanks to him, this flavour is such a hit among customers."

The man smiled softly. "I don't think he's the only one who deserves the credit."

"You're kind with your words. Thank you," she said, her chest warming up the way it did whenever she got a compliment. Her body was developing an unhealthy obsession to the feeling though.

As she returned the change to the customer, she felt a familiar brooding darkness creep over her. "Visit again!" she called out to the customer before turning to Mr Leather Jacket.

"Raspberry ripple?" she asked him, quickly scanning his body for damaged tissues or bruised skin. She couldn't identify any wounds. Maybe there wasn't one today or he had concealed it well.

The man grunted.

She smiled.

"How many scoops do you want?"

"Two."

She tilted her head. "Bad day?"

"None of your business."

His coldness wasn't icy enough for her to back away. After all, she sold ice creams for a living. She knew how to deal with ice and make something sweet out of it.

She grabbed a bowl and took the scooper from the bowl of warm water before digging into the tray of raspberry ripple. The flavour wasn't a hit with everyone like she had expected it to be but it wasn't completely ignored as well. "Here you go," she said, handing him the bowl and poking a wooden spoon into it. "Enjoy."