Split

"If you're not gonna take this seriously, I'm leaving. Tonight."

Am I to let the fruit sog in melting Neapolitan? I bought this three blocks away and hurried through evening heat to store it in time that it wouldn't melt fully, and now it's freezer burnt on one end. I try to enjoy it finally, in the comfort of my own home on my own time, and I initially succeed in spite of its hardened crystals and wilting, leaky banana, and I am asked to ignore it at such a point? Ignore it now that anything short of reluctant haste would render it mush, if it can't be called nearly so already?

I tell her this and she scoffs, storming through the other room and up the stairs, her steps and identifiable suitcase noises directly over my head. I falter not, scooping one sugary spoonful after another into my mouth. I care little for sweets until night's fallen and I will not refuse myself this solitary vice.

I hear the temperamental zipper of the hardshell carry-on drag two and fro, sticking and unsticking, its teeth cramping worse with every one of her irrational yanks. She's never been patient. It finally opens, I assume, and low pomphs and bumps drum on the carpet as wads of clothes and toiletries are thrown into the receptacle, the noises' thin route through the cheaply constructed ceiling delivering an ambiance to my midnight snack time.

It's been years since I've had a banana split. I'm not partial to them— if I were I imagine I'd not have left such a gap in between experiences— but I am a connoisseur of strawberry ice cream and my associate Kenzie assured me that Heidi's Creamery sold the best strawberry ice cream she's had since moving to the city and I was shocked to find a chain link in my very own neighborhood. And while two scoops of strawberry was $4.50, the banana split was only $6. Why decline a bargain?

But she, Kenzie, is what this is all about.

"...and now she's telling you about ice cream shops?"

That was shouted at me a few minutes ago. I don't see how restaurant recommendation is specifically traitorous but I suppose it was just the cherry on top (raucous applause) of my recently uncovered infidelity. One betrayal worsened by another, in her naive eyes.

The affair had, in my defense, ended several months ago. She cared little for the salience of that point. An apology was insufficient too. Perhaps in part due to it being offered through a mouthful of cold vanilla and syrup, but who can know for sure?

Clumps galore as the suitcase batters down each step, her arms too weak to lift it. She's a dainty, fragile woman— all bones, like a 2000's teen model. Kenzie's sturdier. Taller too. Which is unimportant, since I am not specifically interested in taller women. I'm only looking for argumentative justifications and I curse myself for allowing the situation to take my mind off of my banana split.

"You're still eating it!?"

I'm not a vacuum cleaner, so I say that.

"I'm not a vacuum cleaner."

She finds no humor in it. She leaves without closing the front door and I reflect on the joke. It wasn't funny, I decide, and I forgive her for failing to laugh. Vacuum cleaners may take things in quickly but they're inanimate and cannot care for the delicacies of ice cream. They wouldn't be all too much good at cleaning it up if spilled either, unless the tool in question was one of the industrial, moisture-specializing vacuums. Those things could get anything out of a rug. I could've said, "I'm not an industrial, moisture-specializing vacuum," but I don't think that would have been any funnier.

I finish my banana split and go to the sink, accidentally splashing myself with the tap's omnidirectional ricochet off the concave spoon, when she comes back in. I was so entranced with the final bites that I did not notice her never having started the car. She stands in the doorway, her shoes halfway onto the kitchen tile, as tears stream down her face. The keys hang on the hook beside the refrigerator and I realize she forgot them.

"I forgot the keys," she tells me, even though I had already figured that out on my own. "We'll talk about the lease in the morning if you aren't covered in ice cream by then, like a child. I'm going to Marcia's."

She drove off, this time without a hitch.

To say I'm covered in ice cream is a gross over exaggeration. I wasn't bare, admittedly, but it only glossed my lips and dribbled some down my chin. One would think I'd slathered it on my cheeks and forehead the way she crowed, swimming in the cream and dyeing my clothes with it. I suppose there was a spot or two on my shirt now, given the nature of spoon-washing, but I'm significantly cleaner than I am covered. And could a mere child maintain a multi-year relationship on top of a workplace affair? I should hardly think so.

I finish rinsing the spoon and return to the table. Marcia's an elementary school teacher so I know she's asleep. She's a deep sleeper too. I am privy to her circadian tendencies because of a secondary affair I initiated with her more recently that was, obviously, not yet discovered. I wonder if Marcia will confess upon being woken up— if she wakes up at all— or if she will writhe in guilt till morning.

I had washed the spoon overtop a calamity of other dishes and decide I'm not yet too tired to wash the rest. When I am nearly finished, my phone rings to round out my pondering.

"Marcia too!?"

In summary, that is what the thirteen minute phone call was about, accompanied by sobbing. It ended in a string of expletives and the promise of my impending demise by the hand of her father. I don't believe her saying that the man is going to kill me but I would not put him past aggravated assault of the first or second degree. It may be wise to sleep elsewhere tonight, until the rapids settle.

I ignore the many messages coming in, now from a cacophony of numbers, and scroll into the Js, change my mind, and hop back up to pick an E. While it rings, I survey the fridge for some electrolytes and hydration, in preparation. I can't call without an excuse, of course.

The ringing is interrupted by a sleepy voice feigning confusion at my calling.

"Hey Eliza. Oh, no reason, I was just thinking about you."