There were two mothers each with two children queued up before Karl at Morelli’s Ice Cream. They were similarly aged, as were their kids. They had similar socio-economic status, Karl assumed. They all wanted ice cream. This is the kind of ice that breaks itself (a.k.a. Arctic ice). Why was no one chit-chatting? The only reason Karl left the house was an attempt at hearing, then joining, a conversation. And these were women with children; people who like to to talk and the people they like to talk about. Karl hoped for each of them that their ice cream was an actual treat, a moment of savour they could think about later and not crave, but remember with affection, and not a regret. But, to Karl, the mothers looked like the task at hand, getting ice cream with the kids, were bullets they each were biting down on.
And that’s where Karl stopped thinking about the two women, each with two kids in front of him in line at Morelli’s ice cream. He did not notice their irony. He just wanted his goddamn rocky road and these bitches are acting like they’ve never eaten ice cream before, “ALL ICE CREAM IS GLUTEN FREE. NO! DON’T GET THE FUCKING CONE!”