Charles Henri sat on the bench and lightly slid his tongue across the black raspberry ice cream. Black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins: the order he had placed at Schneider's Sweet Shoppe since it opened in 39', a little bit after he had turned 8. The old bench had been repainted since then, of course, but always the same glossy white, and Charles Henri had always remembered it chipped and peeling, as if the bench attempted to welcome and entice potential customers with its imperfections. He had sat on this bench with his father and mother until mother died in 1943, at which time he continue to sit on the bench with his father until he met Isabella. He sat with Isabella and father until pappy passed away in 1952, then it was just Isabella and his three children. Those golden days flickered in the old man's eyes; he remembered the evenings spent by the street, slurping up the home made delight of Schneider's.

His weekly ritual was different now, although he bought the same flavor and sat in the same spot. The smell of the road and the city no longer rose up gently to his nostrils, the atmosphere seemed hostile and foreign although the benches and the street that encompassed Schneider's had been altered so little. The sun shone differently now, and the heat it radiated was harsh and dangerous and refused to twinkle like it used to. His visit to Schneider's was more painful that enjoyable, yet he returned dutifully, week after week, never disappointing his old spot on the left of the second bench by the window. He knew exactly why he did it. Isabella's death wasn't going to shatter his life, though he loved her and loved her dearly. The kid's move away from the town and their distance that was unabridged by phone calls or letters wasn't going to morph him into a dysfunctional human being, unable to enjoy a nice cone of black raspberry ice cream from the best sweet shoppe in the state. He would mourn what is meant to be mourned, but he wasn't going to stop the custom he once held so close to his heart. He wouldn't stop just because it was empty and hollow and simply echoed the sweet voice of the sparkling sands of time.

So here he sat, licking his black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins flexed smoothly around the treat like rumpled wrapping paper. He had done this for many years, he was very good at it. It shouldn't have been hard to sit and to eat the dripping, sticky mess of a dairy product that had once brightened up his whole week. Heavens, he didn't even like this black raspberry flavor; it had gone sour after Olivia finally took that editing job in Chicago and crossed the bridge and soured over the river. But he would sit, and he would eat, because that's what he enjoyed and that's who he was: he was a man who like ice cream and a man who supported Schneider's Sweet Shoppe.

The appeal of the visit to Schneider's had dwindled and reformed. It was interesting to watch the people who came to the shoppe and the different flavors that different people got. Today two teenage girls sat on his bench, a blonde who was eating the peach and a redhead who was biting into the moose tracks. They wore jeans that they slung low on their hips, and colored, sleeveless summer blouses. They chatted about different friends and boys, but Charles Henri focused on staring at the asphalt the blurred in front of him with trucks and vans and sedans.

He had made it down to the cone and had just taken his first bite of it when the blonde girl next to him asked:

“What's your name?”

Charles Henri looked at his cone and took a second bite, wondering who the youth was talking to.

“ Hey. What's your name?” She repeated, looking straight at the old man.

“Charles Henri.” He replied.

“Cooooool. Sounds French or somethin'.”

“Yes, it is French.” He said, somewhat bashfully.

“Why are you eating ice cream all by yourself.”

He looked down at the dirty sidewalk in front of him. Why not welcome sincerity into his life? He sighed.

“Because I have no one to eat ice cream with.”

“Here,” she cheerfully said, completely unafraid. “I'll sit with you.”

She scooted up next to him and peered at the remnants of his ice cream.

“What flavor did you get?” She asked, squinting at his cone.

“ Black raspberry. I always get black raspberry.”

“You must really dig that ice cream then, huh?”

He rotated the cone in his hand and licked a small drop of deep purple liquid that had fallen onto his wrinkled hand.

“No, not really, not anymore.” The girl looked at him inquisitively, inquiring with her eyes as to why on earth did he buy the stupid ice cream if he didn't like it and there were 13 other flavors.

“ But I always get Black Raspberry.” Charles Henri looked at his cone once more and allowed his eyes to wander about the street. He noticed a young woman sitting on the bench on the other side of the door whose presence had slipped by the observant man because of the conversation he had fallen into with the peach-consuming girl. She wore black high heels with rolled up jeans and a purple shirt, and she had long brown hair that flowed down her shoulders. She didn't take her gaze off of Charles Henri; she had been observing the interaction between the girl and the old man. Her eyes held the look of stone, with just the tiniest crack in the steel facade. She was curious. This brief conversation struck her, she did not scoff at it or roll her eyes as she so often did upon examining her fellow citizens. She did originally, as was her wont, but then she peered a bit harder at the two. A faint and muted smile flashed upon her lips occasionally, as if she were trying to be rid of it. Something about the colloquy warmed her immensely and lifted her. Finally her teeth burst through the pursed lips and fell naturally into a beautiful grin. She stood up and threw her napkin away but paused before disposing of the ice cream. Another faint smile came to her face, it was the first to truly reach her eyes. She walked down the sidewalk to the bench that housed the old man and the two girls.

“If you don't like Black Raspberry it's awfully rediculous to buy it. Here, try the cookies and cream,” she muttered, handing her cone over to the old man. “I get a new flavor every time I come and this one's absolutely delicious. I might just be sticking to it for a while.” She smiled breezily and turned to go.

“ What's your name?” Asked the blonde.

The young woman opened her mouth to answer, but closed it immediately . A delicate frigidity washed over her and left her once again intensely arctic in her stare. She smugly tilted her head up and glanced at the girl. The smile didn't succeed this time, that odd moment of disorder had passed. She smirked and turned around briskly, clapping down the sidewalk in her black heels.

Charles Henri stared after the strange woman for an instant, laughed with the girl next to him and took a bite out of the cookies and cream.

“Pretty darn good.”

A red car rolled past, in the passenger's seat was the young woman. Charles Henri tipped his hat in thanks for the ice cream. The woman became still as another smile rose to her face. It failed, however, leaving the plane of her features as nippy as ever. She sighed, and turned her head, focusing her dark eyes on the mail box across the street.