Settima:

Stra-chuh-teh-luh

Stra-chi-ah-teh-lah?

Stra-siah-teh-lah?

I stare at the menu, which is painted on the wall backing the small kitchen. I run down the list of promising flavors for the Last Time. Then for the Second Last Time. And the Third Last Time, not really seeing it anymore. The bold letters turn to masses of fuzzy black, splattered and broken like road kill.

Sesta:

Panic wraps its fist around my heart, which beats hard in protest. The pressure builds between my temples as I shuffle to fill the gap between me and the bleary-eyed father with his Little Princess, who howls on and on about how she wants a second scoop. He looks as though he wants to strangle someone when Little Princess accuses him of not loving her enough, because everyone knows love is measured in sorbet scoops. I take a step back, bumping into the old man behind me. He cusses under his breath as apologies tumble from my lips.

Stra-chuh-teh-luh.

Quita:

Everyone hates me in this ice cream shop. They will hang my picture on the wall. People We Very Much Hate, the wall will say, my photo displayed beneath Little Princess but above the old lady who complained there was “hardly enough Oree-you” in her double scoop of vanilla (they have Oreo ice cream, however this is apparently “not the same”). She will be on the wall for being a person of the worst kind, those who get just vanilla at an ice cream shop who has more than just vanilla. What I would like is

Li Quarto:

Mango sorbet. Maan-gow sor-bay. I swallow the word, savor it, and choke. The sharp edges of the M dig into my throat so hard I taste blood. I cough it back up. Maan-gow is not anywhere near as refreshing as the real thing. And there will be none of the real thing tonight. Not a surprise. It rarely ever works. Strah-Chi-Ah-Teh-La has a violent C there in the middle. Forced and fast, hard to catch. The Stra is manageable. The Teh-La is a walk in the park. Chi-ah is hell. Even if I do manage to spit it out without shredding my throat, the issue becomes pronunciation. My spanish accent (although different from italian, but adequate with effort) might slip, making me seem

Terzo:

Like an obnoxious, better-than-thou prick. Yet, on the caboose end of the train wreck, the Americanized Stra-chuh-teh-luh could be irritating if this cashier is of Italian heritage, and they may appreciate the proper pronunciation after its bastard brother is mumbled to them day in and day out.

Do they look Italian?

I peer around the shoulder of the tired eyed father. The cashier, a kid I’m 80% sure goes to school with me, is meticulously explaining the difference between Italian and Mexican chocolate to a very drunk-looking businessman. He wobbles slightly, leaning his full weight on the counter. She has hair dyed with streaks of red, her face pinched in an uncomfortable smile.

It suits her. The hair, that is. The businessman needs to piss off and order vanilla.

I silently place the businessman below Little Princess on the People We Very Much Hate wall. This is the very same Little Princess who is now kicking her strangle-risk father in the shin. Repeatedly. The drunk businessman gets the Italian chocolate. I hope he spills it on his shiny white shoes. They are too bold for him anyway.

Seconda:

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut… I lay the word out, examine it, and take a bite. I stumble on the Mek and the Cha, but it's merely a cough. Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut doesn't taste nearly as good as Maan-gow, but I’m running out of time. I can see her more clearly now, the cashier. Lily, I read from her little white name pin. Lily. I like that name. It's all round edges and honey.

Little Princess ends up getting her three scoops of Bloo-beh-ree sor-bay. I hate bloo-beh-ree sor-bay. I hope she enjoys it though, because if she does not, I have a nasty feeling that the tired-eyed father, who tips Lily generously when prompted on the little plastic screen, will strangle himself.

We’re next.

I swallow painfully, muscles of my neck and lungs so tight my breath comes out in little wheezes.

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

Prima:

“Hello! Welcome to Mora! How are you guys doin?”

I smile, avoiding her gaze by looking up at the menu. The letters are still mutilated.

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

“Great. And you?”

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

“Good, what can I get for you?”

I feel her looking at me. Feeling rude, I meet her gaze. Her eyes look dead. Glassed over and troubled.

“I’ll have bloo-beh-ree sor-bet in a cone please!” My brother chimes, bursting out from behind me. His shirt is still tucked unevenly into his shorts, his little wrists lathered with soap. She nods, punching the order into the little plasticy screen before looking at me expectantly.

“I’ll uh, i’ll have the same thing.”

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

“In a cone?”

Mek-suh-kun cha-khlut

I nod,

“Yes, please.”

By T. C. Morgan