The inflatable ice cream man hands me the tar coloured dessert and ushers me away.

I have a queue to serve, he says.

Whatever. I walk away and take a bite of the frozen cream. I don’t have sensitive teeth. I can do what I want.

I have nowhere to be. Lectures are finished for the year, I’ve got no shifts at the posh cafe place down the road until next week.

I’m present. I’m living life, spending money however I want, on whoever I want.

Right now, that person is me.

My phone dings, vibrating my consciousness into being through my thigh.

My heart drops.

It’s a message from the date I was just on. It was a elegant yet degenerate date and we spent most of the day together.

I saved her as “🗿” in my contacts. You wouldn’t get it. It’s a running joke.

The ice cream begins to melt onto my hand.

I should have been excited to hear from her, but it was no text, just a picture.

It was from when we said bye, and she asked to take a full body picture of me. I struck a great pose and the fit’s clean, but she didn’t send me that.

She sent a cropped image, zoomed into the most embarrassing thing that’s ever been highlighted to me by a date.

I nearly walk into the road, just barely avoiding a van who honks in aggressive protest before blending into the city’s ambience.

I look back down at the phone.

She’s typing. I don’t bother trying to reply before she does.

Her next message comes through.

“Your fly was undone all day.”

My fly was down all day.

💩