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GABRIELLA
Itake another long lick from my ice cream cone and wonder how I could have missed the obvious signs all around me. I mean, how else could you explain the existence of a lime green colored eye-of-newt ice cream flavor? It’s not even October!
I really must have put blinders up to be so oblivious to the abundance of weirdness all around me. But I suppose that’s who I’ve always been. I make a goal and I meet it, no matter what stands in my way. Even if no one else can appreciate the hard work I put into the cafe.
I chose to skip the red artificial blood or bright pink dream cloud selection and went with a nice orange pumpkin pie flavor. It was the most normal one available. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to taste the black and glittery space goop flavor, but today is not that day.
“So,” Chet says after devouring an entire scoop in one gulp. “How’s business?”
If he wanted me in a good mood, he sure has a funny way of showing it. “Miserable,” I answer.
“That bad?” He sounds genuinely concerned. I brighten up a little, thinking he isn’t just trying to push my buttons.
“People like the food. Theyreallylike the coffee.” I think about the mayor who ordered seven cups; one for him, and six tiny ones for his snakes. Watching them lap up the drink with their pointed tongues was somehow equally adorable and horrifying. “But no one wants to stay inside and linger. That’s the whole point of a cafe, right? You sit down with a cup of coffee and a croissant and, I don’t know, write or chat or take in the ambiance.”
Chet smiles knowingly. “Well, the vibe here is kind of… different from what you’re going for.”
Oh, I certainly understand thatnow. There go my dreams of a pastel pink paradise. The thought of bringing back the gloomy dark curtains and spiderweb crochet doilies makes my heart sink. God, would they want the actual spider webs back too?
I shiver.
My internal dread is interrupted when Chet makes a sound of excitement, followed by a screeching guitar riff. I look up towards the gazebo in the middle of the park where a group of black clad teenagers are getting ready to play what I assume is music. The drummer is enormous, with green skin, and the singer has pointed ears.
“We are the Red Banshees and we’re here torock!” The vocalist lets out a high-pitched screech before jumping into fast paced lyrics about haunting the foggy countryside.
I cringe at the off key singing, but Chet seems to be enjoying himself. “You like this?” I ask, pulling my shoulders up to my ears.
Chet shakes his head with a wide grin. “Not at all. But it’s important to support local music.”
I snort out a laugh that immediately makes me blush. Chet doesn’t seem to notice, still wrapped up in how awfully sincere the kids are in their screeching performance. We casually make our way to a part of the park that’s a bit quieter, and I realize I’m able to make some casual conversation again.
Good. As terrifying as Chet’s whole deal is, I have to admit he really intrigues me. I want to get to know him better. How exactly does a werewolf live, anyway? I notice his ice cream has chocolate sprinkles and hope his kind don’t have the same food allergies as regular canines.
“So,” I say, trying to start some kind of deep and romantic conversation. Something that really brings out our true selves. “What’s your favorite food?” is all I can seem to think of.
Chet brightens up, and I swear if he had dog ears they’d be perked up. “I love pizza,” he says.
I almost snort a laugh again but catch myself. “Really?”
“Yeah! Pepperoni and cheese with a good beer. Perfect dinner.”
I’m so caught off guard by how banal his answer is. What was I expecting him to say? The three little pigs?
“Chris serves a pretty good pizza at his bar. You wouldn’t think it, but the man knows how to put together a fantastic marinara. Just don’t expect any garlic,” he laughs. “What about you? What’s your favorite pizza flavor?”
He’s looking at me so expectantly that I almost forget how controversial my honest answer is. “I love pizza, but it has to be Island style.”
Chet raises an eyebrow, then a look of understanding washes over his face before he scrunches it in disgust. “Pineapple!”
I sigh in exasperation. “They wouldn’t serve it if it wasn’t good!”
“Still.” He shakes his head. “Come on, fruit on pizza? That’s so weird!”
My mouth falls open at the audacity. “First of all, it’s a fantastic marriage of sweet, savory, and salty that makes for a perfect bite every time. And second… you literally turn into a giant dog every night!” I scream. I’m sure there’s no need for discretion here. “You shapeshift but I’m the weirdo for liking a very normal topping?”
Chet laughs so hard he doubles over, almost dropping his ice cream. “Pineapple on pizza is way weirder here than lycanthropy,” he says between gasps.
“Well maybe my cafe should start selling Island style pizza flatbreads.” I take a good bite of my pumpkin ice cream, finally reaching the top of the cone. His blue eyes are fixed on me, obviously taking in how my tongue swirls the confection into subtle shapes.
