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“You’re not seriously getting pistachio.”
He doesn’t look at you. He’s peering into the frosty glass like he’s studying market trends.
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s green nut paste. ”
“It’s refined.”
“It’s tree spit. ”
He turns his head, slow. Unamused. You’re both in sunglasses. You look like a bodyguard. He looks like a high-stakes businessman. No one dares cut in line.
“What are you getting?”
“Black sesame. Like a sane person.”
He scoffs.
“That’s not dessert. That’s culinary depression.”
“It’s complex! It has depth! ”
“It tastes like the inside of an old millstone.”
You step closer.
“You only like pistachio because it’s the flavor of money.”
“You’re wrong. That’s gold leaf and truffle oil.”
“You're the worst person I’ve ever shared a bed with.”
“You haven’t shared anything, sweetheart. You fell asleep sideways and kicked me in the ribs.”
You glare.
The gelato vendor, visibly sweating, finally asks:
“...Would you like to sample anything?”
You both speak at the same time:
“No.”
Tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The cat back home probably felt it through the walls.
“Fine,” you mutter. “We’ll get both.”
“I’m not eating haunted stone paste.”
“And I’m not touching pistachio puke.”
You turn to the vendor.
“Two cups. One pistachio. One black sesame. Keep them separate. ”
“Please,” Aventurine adds, without missing a beat. “She has trust issues.”
“ I will bite you. ”
“That’s not a threat, darling.”
You nearly elbow him as you grab your cup and stalk off to a quiet bench. He follows, smug and flawless.
You sit. He sits.
A silent moment of mutual loathing over chilled dessert.
You both taste your own first.
Horrific.
Then, without looking, you trade spoons .
Then cups.
Because of course you do.