Lemon Sorbet

The scent of lemon and sugar hung heavy in the air, a constant companion in the ice cream shop. My gaze, as it so often did, drifted to the middle stool on the left flank of the bay view area. It was 3:00 PM, and he was there, just as he had been for the past three months.

He paid, he walked, he sat. For an hour, he'd gaze out at the pier, a quiet, enigmatic presence. Then, he'd leave, a perfectly folded paper cone and tissue left on the counter – a tiny, neat signature of his routine.

Today, however, the routine shattered. As he reached the counter, that familiar, slightly square smile broadened, and he spoke. Not the usual mumbled order, but words, clear and resonant, about the weather. My heart hammered against my ribs, a strange mix of panic and exhilaration. My main character, as Quinn called him, was finally talking to me.