Flavor

"Is this the end of the line," he asks. Yes, I reply to this stranger who edges next to me, his chin inches from my shoulder. White hair dangles down his back. A ball cap gives him shade from the summer sun. The menu board at this lakeside food stand offers three flavors of ice cream: vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. But there goes a scoop of mint chocolate chip. "I'm getting out of here," he says to me. "I'm 67 years old and I've had enough, enough of winter. I grew up in this neighborhood, but I'm leaving for San Diego." My hand reaches to my head, double checking for the sunglasses keeping this man from seeing me. I look away to the people who stroll around the lake, glide on its surface with sailboats, or sit alongside it listening to a free symphony concert. I know nearly 365 days of sunshine and could take it again without a fight. "I went to southwest high school," he adds and points to train tracks. "I rode that trolley when I was a kid." I nod until we arrive at the front of the line and his wife returns. She wonders why we order here but pick up there. "That's dumb," she says. Neither one says a thing about the biting flies.