The Nihilist Ice-Cream Parlour Or Sophistry And Sugar
by
Foz Meadows

‘Would you like some Pointless Ripple? It’s new. There’s strawberries in it.’
	‘Why don’t you call it Strawberry Ripple, then?’ I ask. A good friend, Mario rises to my lunchtime banter, snorting pointedly as he stabs a thick brown finger at the Perspex case.
	‘Which is the more essential point? That the flavour contains strawberries, or that it is, ultimately, pointless? Ice-cream comes and goes, individual components are broken down, digested and shat out, but the pointlessness remains.’ He slides his finger across, squrrrrrk, and taps above a different creamy offering, coloured pale gold. ‘Try the Doomed Delight. Guaranteed to please.’
	I make a show of considering. There’s rarely a crowd on weekdays at the Nihilist Ice-Cream Parlour, and apart from one old man and his bowl of Five Flavour Ephemera hunched by the window, it’s just Mario and me. 
	‘Do you know, I think I had that last week. What else is new?’
	‘New? Hah!’ Mario makes a dismissive flicking gesture with his free hand, sending a small globule of dripped confectionary sailing off into the distance. ‘Nothing, my dear friend, is ever new. We live, we die. The planet revolves, and one day our star will shrivel up like an old man’s balls – phtt! – and suck us into the void. Ashes to ashes, dust to stardust. And on that final day, you will still be standing in front of my counter, scaring off customers with your indecision and awkward hesitance, while I, sensing what is to come, will have long since buried myself in the soft and most handsome bosom of my wife.’
	‘Very Hitchhiker’s Guide,’ I say. ‘The Apocalypse comes, and there you will be, doing the fleshy equivalent of lying down and putting a paper bag over your head.’
	‘And why not? Do you suppose there are better ways to spend your last moments?’
	‘If everything is pointless, why should anything be better?’
	‘Ah.’ Mario grins. ‘You have, as they say, hit half the point.’
‘As who says? Nobody says that.’
Another wave of the hand. ‘Regardless. If your hypothesis were correct, I should not sell ice-cream. Society should grind to a halt. Human endeavour should crumble in the face of such obviousness. As it has not crumbled, I shall take this as evidence that you, in this case, are wrong. Thus: everything is pointless, but this does not prevent it from being enjoyed.’
‘You’d agree, though, that dwelling detracts from the savour.’
‘Dwell? Who says to dwell?’ Delicately, Mario stabs a disposable coloured spoon into a tub marked Pessimist’s Downfall, withdrawing a small quantity of what, elsewhere, might be termed chocolate. This he hands me, and I, obliging soul, take it. 
‘Try that,’ he commands, master of this small and sugary world. I obey. It is very good. I swallow, close my eyes. Even through closed lids, I can feel him watching me.
‘It’s very good,’ I say.
‘Very good?’ I open my eyes again. Mario is feigning outrage. ‘Do not overtax your vocabulary on my account! Do not, for instance, tire your tongue on polysyllabic adjectives like excellent, or unparalleled. Say only that my Pessimist’s Downfall is more than merely good.’
‘I did. I said it was very good.’
‘Bah!’ he glowers. ‘Adverb apologist.’ 
Behind us, the old man smacks his lips audibly and suddenly, the sound like a wet dishcloth slapped on a sink. I turn, curious. He is halfway through the Ephemera – that is to say, 2.5 flavours done – and has paused to re-tuck a red-and-white checked napkin into his collar. Cleanliness thus ensured, he sets to with renewed vigour, digging out tiny bits with his plastic spoon, chipping the hardened ice-cream like Cro-Magnon man at a flint.
‘Give me some Mortal Mango, then,’ I say, ‘with a scoop of Random Chance.’
‘The pleasure,’ says Mario, already whirling lightly on his feet, ‘is mine. Waffle cone?’
‘Please.’
	A trade is done: I pass him exact change, and in return receive a majestic confection, topped with not two succulent bulbs of frozen joy, but three. I raise an eyebrow. Mario works the till, smiling as it rings shut on my hard-earned dollars.
	‘An experiment,’ he says. ‘A new recipe. I call it Joy For Now.’
	‘Thanks.’
	‘No worries.’
	I leave, pausing once to watch the old man. The Ephemera is all but gone: one bite, two, and the bowl is empty, smeared with rainbow melt. Under my gaze, he turns, grinning hugely, and removes the collar-napkin, dabbing gently at his thin lips. 
	‘Good?’ I find myself asking. He nods. 
	‘As anything ever is. You get to my age, there’s precious few pleasures left. Nothing lasts. But even so, there’s happiness in the little things.’
	A bead of Joy For Now runs down my wrist, and I lick it reflexively. It tastes a bit like ginger, or maybe lemons – bittersweet at first, but the aftertaste lingers. 
‘So there is,’ I say.
And then I leave. 


 – by Foz Meadows
with thanks to Zach Webber