Vanilla

I ordered vanilla ice cream. Like always. Then I realised I've never liked vanilla.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Sun out, first warm day in weeks. I was walking through town, hands in pockets, trying to feel like a person who'd moved on. I passed a little ice cream parlour, the kind with chalkboard menus and a queue out the door.

I joined the line without thinking.

When I got to the front, the guy behind the counter grinned. "Usual?"

"Yeah," I said. "Vanilla."

He scooped it. Handed it over. I took a bite and stopped.

It was fine. Smooth. Sweet. Perfectly forgettable.

And suddenly, I was somewhere else. A seafront in Brighton. Her laughing, wind in her hair, a cone of vanilla in her hand. Her name was Rosie. She'd always get vanilla. "It's classic," she'd say. And I'd say, "Same," because I didn't want to be difficult. Because ordering the same thing felt like being a team.

We'd split every ice cream, every dessert, every Sunday. I'd never once asked myself what I wanted.

I stood on the pavement, melting vanilla running down my wrist.

Two years. And I'd been eating her flavour.

I walked back in. The guy raised an eyebrow. "Forget something?"

"Can I try the pistachio?"

It was disgusting.

But for the first time in a long time, I knew it was mine.