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It’s snowing outside, the flakes fluffy and damp, and Joel finds himself wishing he’d had the foresight to wear a hat, even a baseball cap at this point. His scalp is soaked through and he’ll be lucky if all he has in the morning is a cold and a runny nose. Sonny doesn’t seem to notice the chill, drifting along beside him with his faced turned up toward the flurry, licking an ice cream cone. A fucking ice cream cone.
“It’s snowing,” Joel says, “I think that’s nature’s way of saying that it is too fucking cold for ice cream, Skrills.”
Sonny continues licking. “It’s never too cold for ice cream. Scientifically proven.”
“It’s too cold for me.”
Sonny laughs. The snow stands in sharp contrast against his signature look of all-black-everything, sticking wetly in his hair and on his hat. “That just means you’re old, man. You can’t keep up with young whipper-snappers like me.”
Joel places a hand to his heart and opens his mouth to a comically wide gasp. “I am not old.”
“Nope, I just called all your friends and they agree: deadmau5 is a total foagy and should be put in a retirement home effective immediately.”
Joel shoves Sonny into a snow bank and the younger man does a weird combination of a cry and a laugh. His eyes are exactly the same color as his triple chocolate chip single scoop and Joel finds himself with an extremely creepy urge to lick them.
Instead, he grabs Sonny’s ice cream and takes a big bite, and this is perhaps the first thing he’s done that night that has truly gotten Sonny’s goat. The look on his face is priceless.
“Hmm,” Joel says, licking his lips, “maybe you’re right.”