Ice

They both sat in awkward silence at the café. It had been ages since they’d last seen each other, and it was only through a compulsive e-mail he had penned that the both of them were there.

She had been reluctant, but he persuaded her, telling her that even if the meeting was awkward, as she was sure it would be, it would be over quickly anyway.

But it wasn’t exactly this that had bothered her. Deep down inside, what she really wanted was of the memory of him to remain as it was. It would be unfortunate, she thought, for that memory of him to be replaced by another that would, in all likelihood, be worse.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“That’s what we’re here for isn’t it?” she replied, smiling, diffusing a bit of the awkward air that hung about them. “Iced tea would be nice.”

He returned with her iced tea and a cup of hot cappuccino, as well as a cup of ice.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the cup of ice.

“A cup of ice,” he replied, “what does it look like?”

“A cup of ice… but what’s it for?”

“No, the question is, who is it for.”

“Oookay… who is it for?”

“It’s for you, and you only.”

“For me?”

“Yes, for you. I’ve only got eyes for you.”

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