“A whipped ice cream please,” the customer asks. I begin to turn before a tiny giggle catches my attention, looking down, I meet eyes with a small child. Her blonde hair is in two pink bobbles, pudgy cheeks covered with chocolate and large eyes already tainted with a sugar rush.
“A child’s cone?” I ask, in hope.
“No no, a normal one will be fine.” The customer replies. I raise an eyebrow at him, pause, then nod with a sigh, thinking of the disaster to come. After creating the giant tower of white whipped perfection, I sprinkle it with rainbow drops and a red, sugary sauce. The dad takes it from me, handing it to his child with clumsy ignorance, I sigh one more.
“That will be -” I begin, before hearing the shout of an angry parent. Looking down the counter, I see that the girl has splattered her face with the substance. Her cone is shattered on the floor and her sparkling brown eyes are full of tears ready to cascade into a tantrum. The dad looks at me, accusation burning in his eyes, I smile.
“Would you like a child’s cone the time?”