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Rachel R.

The clink of ice cubes tumbling into a glass one by one brought my head around. He was taking the ice, the cubes that I had frozen. Not exactly home cooking, but it was something I had touched. I filled the trays and brought them downstairs, didnít I? I got them out of the freezer when they were done and bent the tray, wacked it against the counter until the little ice droplets connecting the ice sheet shattered and there were 12 individual cubes of ice, nestling with tongs in a glass bowl next to the Pepsi and Ginger Ale. He poured himself some Sprite and I noticed as he moved away and took the first, fizzy sip that the back of his hand was wet where it had swiped the side of the glass bowl of ice.

The condensed droplets from the heat of day and the grill, and all the people moving around, like we were electrons, full of energy and the ice bowl was some sort of nucleus, neutrons and protons of ice slowly melting into the blue skied cell. Maybe this same ice would rain down on us later tonight, grow the garden corn high for the next barbecue.

I took a sip of that water, didnít I? Right before I carried it down the steps, so the over-filled tray of water wouldnít spill. Maybe some of my spit was frozen with the ice. Like a kiss. Frozen, a kiss in the ice. Everyone with an ice cube; or maybe just him. I like Iím kissing him and he doesnít even know it. My own secret, between the ice and me.

I hold back a giggle, as he chugs half the glass before he set it down to join the baseball game that was fast becoming Pickle. Maybe Iíll play, too.

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