Eleven

She smiles. It's a good look for her. I'm already wrapped in a dopey smile because it's fucking ice cream. Books tout ice cream as the pinnacle of dessert. And it's right fucking there. I press my face against the glass, ogling the colorful cascade of... fuck, I don't even know what I'm looking at, but I need to be a part of it.

I'm not saying there was no ice cream anywhere, I'm saying there weren't any ice cream socials or whatever in military school.

"Those are the toppings!" I realize. I've seen pictures of elaborate setups, sometimes sandwiched between banana halves, which sounds bizarre but I've never had a banana either.

"What does it taste like?" I ask, thrilled to death to have an informed opinion.