Ice cream truck.

[icarus]

For weeks a tantalizing sound has wafted up from the street, every afternoon. That calliope tinkle of an ice cream truck.

There's a park nearby, with swings to lure small children. Pushed by parents carrying those all-important wallets.

We're on the third floor, a block away. We see the children mill about followed by their lumbering reluctant parents. And then the truck pulls away.

There's no way we could make it.

Every day, the boyfriend has given me that look of hopeful lust you see on every 8-year-old's face at that magical sound, his blue eyes bright and round. I see that look when I dangle a kitty treat over fuzzhead's nose.

Today I said, "Okay," grabbed money and launched. I'm the sprinter.

Not even waiting to pull on shoes, I spiralled down floors of loud wooden steps, through the cool basement, out the back, flung the door wide --

-- gritty pavement painful but familiar on bare feet. I remember this. Though I grew up on dirt road and used to eat dust as my friends fell behind.

I beat the truck, gasping, leaning on my knees, and flagged it down.

The popsicles were terrible. But it's the hunt that matters.