Wasps in the Ice Cream

by Tim McGregor

There’s no need to pretend that I like the taste of beer any more than she does. There’s no pressure to be cool or anything, in fact. George is so far outside my group of friends that she might as well be from Mars. In a way, she’s free. And that makes it easier. I don’t know why, it just does.

It doesn’t last long, but suddenly and without warning, everything seems right with the world. It’s a snapshot I want to capture and preserve like a wasp trapped in amber. That’s the weird part about happiness or joy; you’re doomed to realize it only after the moment has passed. And it passes quickly.

“I like talking to you in the dark,” she says. “It’s more truthful.” She’s not wrong. There’s a weird intimacy when you can’t see the other person. Just the sound of their voice and the vague sense that they’re here in the dark with you. They could be right next to you or across the room. “I like talking to you either way,” I tell her. “But it’s easier in the dark.”

We lie back and watch the sky as the crickets buzz all around us. I don’t realize until now how much I’ve missed this. Missed her. There’s no pretense with George, no pressure to conform to the cutthroat social cues of my other friends. I’ve been starving for this for the last three days.

Still, there’s something almost thrilling about reading a book that George loves. A shared experience. It’s a kind of magic in itself.

The hollow ache under my breastbone is so deep that I want to cry. But when the pain fades, I miss it and want it back. I didn’t know I was such a masochist. It can’t be normal, feeling this way.

I want to swallow her whole. I never knew you could be this close to another person. I want to melt into her and never let go, never let this feeling end. It’s like jumping off a cliff blindfolded.

There’s a ghost of her here in the car with me, and it’s carving out a hollow space in my chest. It’s confusing, feeling horny and sad at the same time. Is this really what people go through? I’ve always had a disdain for sappy love songs, but every one that bleeds through the radio makes sense to me now. It’s like I’ve caught a fever I can’t shake. Nothing is normal anymore.