Ice-cream parlors

Ice-cream was just an excuse.

It was one of those study days when conversation was a patchy, red tan suitcase bursting at the seams.

There was jazz on the radio, muddy orange lighting and pink guava waffle cone in the air. The cozy little parlor was it’s own little bubble of hope and flurry, within the bustling everyday’s of a city.

We sat on the faded blue wooden benches, our chests exploding with the delight of sound and silence that actually held meaning.

Grey skies turned a violent blue, shades of green turned darker still. Few people came by.

And we talked.

We talked about people; those we cherished and those we were better off without, those who changed our lives for the better and those who made us who we are.

We talked about places; places we’ve seen, heard, lived. Places we’re yet to see, hear and live.

We talked about times in our lives that left it’s pearly white watermark on us, showing us what we’re made of and changing us in ways we cannot fathom.

We talked about lessons we’ve learned the hard way; our tiny dreams in a big, scary world and the carousel of fears that runs our lives.

We talked about the essence of everything that was important to us.

It was terribly hard to stop, to not feel the buzz of a thousand lightbulbs and the tingling excitement in our fingertips.

It felt, for the first time, like things were not merely said, but understood.

And as we walked gingerly down the stone steps, trembling and scared to touch something so surreal, you said you finally understood what it meant to feel infinite.

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