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Summary
When he makes it back into the kitchen, what’s left of his ice cream is completely melted. There must be a metaphor in there somewhere. Deep down Mickey knows that this whole thing had just been blown out of proportion, to put it fucking mildly: Ian doesn’t care that much about whatever happened at Dottie’s yesterday. Still, as he throws away what’s left of his Chocolate Caramel Cookie Dough pint, he knows that it’s definitely too late to backtrack now. Not that he was going to anyway. Pig-headed, remember?
He spots Ian’s forgotten phone on the kitchen island and audibly groans.
Being married to Ian Gallagher is like being married to a California King sized, ice-cream-dropping toddler.
There’s your fucking metaphor.
(In which Mickey puts their neighbor in her place and won’t apologize for it, Ian learns a valuable lesson about compromising and Lip just needs everyone to check their fucking phones for a change.)