Someone hired an ice cream truck to head on over to the office this afternoon and give everyone the free ice cream novelty of their choice. (My choice was ye olde ice cream bar on a stick, which totally wouldn’t’ve been my choice if I’d had maybe fifteen minutes to make a good solid survey of all the options painted on the side, but I didn’t, I did not.) But there was some mixup and two ice cream trucks showed up. They parked about fifty feet away from each other and my colleagues picked one or the other. As my guy handed me the ice cream bar I said, “There’s not going to be a brawl, is there?” And instead of the expected ha ha oh you kidder the ice cream man says, “Yeah, we’re not real big fans of those guys.” And a cold glare. I was going to say icy glare but I mean come on, we’re all adults here.

Then someone else talked about these friends of theirs who once rented an ice cream truck for the summer, and just drove it around and sold ice cream and made money and picked up high-school chicks and the whole works, and how it was the oft-talked-about-but-rarely-actually-experienced best summer ever. I don’t think I’ve had a Best Summer Ever (and I’m pretty sure you can’t have one once you graduate from college), but probably the best Summer Moment was when we were all sunburned and it was a steamy teenaged suburban night and this girl was about to sit down on the couch and I quickly placed my hand, palm up, on the cushion so she sat on my hand. Which is something I still do today.