Summertime 2006. I was with my friend Dylan, who suggested that we go out for ice cream.
“I’m trying to lose weight,” I reminded him. “Ice cream is strictly on the ‘forbidden foods’ list.”
“So just come keep me company,” he suggested.
I shrugged and followed him to the car, taking my usual spot in the passenger seat as he drove the approximately three miles to the nearest Dairy Queen. At the drive through window, he ordered one large Heath Bar Crunch flavored Blizzard, which I couldn’t help but eye. It looked cool, refreshing, and — being that it was forbidden — incredibly alluring.
“Can you hold this till we get home?” he asked.
As I held it, I couldn’t help but observe how the ice cream seemed to glisten under the last few rays of evening sunlight. I salivated thinking what a bite might taste like.
Surely one little bite couldn’t hurt, I decided.
“Mind if I try a spoonful?” I asked Dylan. “Out of curiosity, I mean.”
Dylan grunted, which — for him — translated as “yes.”
I had one bite, but that wasn’t enough, so I had a second. My tongue tingled with an almost electric energy from the sweetness. I must have gone into sugar blackout mode at that point because the next thing I knew, we were in Dylan’s driveway and I was left clutching a nearly empty cup in my hand where the ice cream had once been.
“Can I have my blizzard back?” Dylan asked. I sheepishly handed over what was left, which amounted to a measly few bites.
Dylan looked down at the cup and his eyes bulged. “Wha–“” he started. “I thought you were just going to have a bite!”
“Sorry,” I said, averting my eyes from his gaze and giving him a half-smile.
He grumbled and turned the ignition, maneuvering the car out of the driveway and back in the direction of Dairy Queen for yet another trip.