Their faces glow red. A boy, a girl and a milkshake between them. Chocolate. As she leans in for a sip his foot brushes against hers. She stifles a shiver deep into her gut. Butterflies erupt. All that she wants…She’s the hunter, you’re the bull. Her friends walk past, in and out of the red, giggling. His friends stand clear. Bomber jackets, L.A. Gear. It’s Friday night. He leans closer. Flutter-flutter. The neon flickers.
Sunlight. Couples and crushes eclipsed by morning. Fat, sticky fingers reach for the pink one. Shlop. Plop. Chocolate-maple-butterscotch-strawberry and something green. Sing Hallelujah! Pimp your waffle. Soft serve your face. Pollock your table. Soporific legs squeeze five chairs back into their spaces and saunter off into the promise of Saturday.
A lazy buzz. Topsy-turvy ice-cream cones. Flip-dip-caramel. Flip-dip-chocolate. Flip-dip-banana…or bubblegum, strawberry. Caramel crunch. I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret. Pecan laden sundaes distil moments, extracting precious minutes from the weekend. But time moves in the footfall—to and fro, in and out. Lick, crunch. slurp. Afternoons aren’t exclusive.
The day dozes.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.