Sad Girl Screams for Ice Cream

It takes every ounce of will in me to yank myself off the fluffy cushioning of the couch. A couch that I inherited from an ex boyfriend. An ex boyfriend who lived here. Who just moved out. Whose ghost still haunts the edges of our— I mean, *my* bed. Whose roast chicken fed me and handiwork set up the fairy lights that twinkle around our— I mean, *my* bay windows. Change takes some getting used to.

The room shifts as tiny lights dance in the corners of my eyes. My body slouched for too long. Or I propelled myself vertical too quickly. Or both.

The bodega stands at the end of the block, a measly 37 steps, and yet an invisible force prevents me from opening our— I mean, *my* (goddamnit) converted living room door open. An invisible force or the 30 degree wind chill. Perhaps combined with my lack of pants… minor details.

After sliding on the gray Nike sweats I haven’t washed in 3 weeks and slipping on my Uggs, a horrible relic from my sorority days that I’d rather not talk about, thanks, I stuff keys, credit card, and phone into my parka pocket. Summoning the strength of Zeus, I shove the mammoth slab of wood open and close it behind me. As usual, Marcus, the super, sits on the stoop with a few of our neighbors, beer in hand, smile plastered across his face despite the cold. The moment I appear in the doorway, the gentlemen rush to their feet and create a path for me to step through, unobstructed. 

“Good evening, gents,” I proclaim trying to sound cool and casual and slightly succeeding. “Isabella bonita,” Marcus croons to me. The words spin with a melodic lilt through his Bahamian accent. His comrades nod and wish me a good evening. Then, the trio resume their stations on the steps as I close the gate behind me and barrel down the street against a quick gust of wind. Like most winter nights, the Brooklyn streets are snowless and cold with a few stray pieces of trash scattered like the abandoned pieces of my heart blowing through hollow chambers. I would attribute these feelings to my break up if I hadn’t already felt this way for months. It’s not that I’m depressed, I’m just always a little bit sad, even when I’m a lot a bit happy. Joyful melancholy or something like that. 

Turnip, the cat guardian of this humble sanctuary, greets me on my way in, and I reward him with a light scratch behind his ebony black ears. The door to the freezer looks wide open for perusal while a set of high school looking kids debate the merits of flaming hot versus jalapeño Cheetos. I beeline over to check out the ice cream on deck. Tonight’s selection is alright. None of my favorites are present (cookies and cream where art thou?), but a few good old standbys abound. I stare for a bit caught between Häagen-Daz vanilla chocolate almond and Ben & Jerry’s milk and cookies. I go with the latter for nostalgia’s sake. The ex who will not be named always shared a pint with me on Netflix nights. I will polish this one myself thank you very much. I make it halfway to the counter before doubling back for the other one. Fuck it. 

Ahmed scans my items, takes my cash, and lets me get on my way quickly. Lots of cashiers will make small talk and flirt. Not Ahmed. He has a sixth sense for people who want to be left the fuck alone. Or maybe he understands the language of emotional ice cream, one I am fluent in as the tides of every moon cycle rise and fall in the depths of my uterus and tear ducts. I don’t take a bag choosing to let my fingers freeze rather than create waste or remember to bring one of my 34 tote bags because God forbid I ever remember the reason I bought them. Okay that’s a lie most of them were free, but some of them were not.

When I make my way back towards the gate, Marcus turns and booms, “Isa, back already?” One of his men opens the door for me and insists on holding my ice cream while I unlock the front door. “My name’s Mike if you need anything.” He smiles sweetly. With his eyes more than his mouth. Like he doesn’t want anything from me except a sense of ease. Maybe that’s naive. Maybe thinking that it’s naive is cynical. Either way, I let the thoughts slip away as I push the barricade closed, confining myself inside my haunted cavern for the evening.

In the kitchen I grab a spoon and put away the second pint, going after the first like a lazy but ravenous wolf. The light overhead starts to flicker. “What’s up, Emerson?” I ask out loud, more sincerely than a sane person might. Emerson is the ghost that lives in the electricity. Not the metaphorical ghost of my ex. Maybe he’s also a metaphor, though. 

I leave my phone open on the counter as Instagram stories and ads play one after the other without sound. Some are paragraphs I don’t quite finish, but don’t feel interested enough to go back to. Some are videos of my friends out and about, showing off like they have something to prove. Mos,t of them I forget about as soon as my attention is captured by the next one. Before I know it I’m halfway through the pint and put it away leaving the spoon on the counter. I’ve played this game before. I’ll be back.

In the living room, a half smoked joint calls to me, and I light her up while I throw on some tunes. Glass Animals. No need to cry tonight. I inhale and feel the tension in my shoulders melt. The drums and guitar and synthetic electronic bops infect me like a virus and I’m dancing across smooth wood floors letting ash and embers fall from the end on my medicine stick. My thighs feels strong and soft and I feel a surge of excitement because I still have half a pint waiting for me after this manic movement exhausts the resistance out of me. The anxiety turns to giggles and I’m finally able to genuinely laugh at myself, my sadness, my situation. At the love I lost and the space I’ve created. The ghosts in the electricity and pipes and couch and bed, real and imagined twirl and dig and caress me as I glide and shake and jump. I scream along to every lyric, unrestrained. Untethered. Unburdened. What I wanted is no longer what I want, and that is freeing as fuck.