Starts With One
In the sweltering air of a Honfleur summer, a person had three options for a cold treat: A beer from Croc's, an iced coffee from Homespun, or ice cream from Scoops. The latter was a seasonal business. Though it opened in early May, Abbey was convinced she'd already gained 5 pounds on mint chocolate chip. As she licked a double cone and stuffed change in her pocket, she wondered where these calories would settle. Please be tits, she prayed, knowing most likely it would be ass.
This was her night off. No swamp tours to give, no pool hall challenges to answer. Just a single gal strolling around the neighborhood, later to veg on the couch. Pretty boring, but Abbey didn't feel like firing off desperate texts. If nobody answered, she'd just get pathetic and try to drown her sorrows in a margarita, but she knew from personal experience that ice cream and Jose Cuervo didn't mix.
A rare night breeze tore the napkins from her hand. "Ah shit..." She hurried after the white squares, even as they blew behind the building. Scoops perched on a curve in Elbow Road. Behind the umbrella-covered picnic tables, the property turned into shaggy grass and then marsh that transitioned into open water. She snatched up one napkin and let the other get away. She wasn't stepping on a snake just to save the planet. But she stood in the dark anyway, craning her neck to see if the chili pepper lights strung around her houseboat were visible from here.