by James Bates
ice cold milk
I always liked that photo her father took of Belinda and me. Her parents ran Rothschild's Ice Cream Emporium and they thought having a lovey-dovey couple sharing a couple of their cones would make for good advertising. I was all on board. Belinda and I had been dating for a few weeks, and I was head over heels in love. I'd have done anything to get close to her. Plus, you know, I wanted to make a good impression.
"Kevin, you stand here," her father pointed, getting scene set-up. " Belinda, get right up next to him."
We eagerly followed his instructions, having a hard time keeping our hands off each other. All went well until, besotted as I was by the beguiling Belinda, I forgot myself and starting eating my ice cream. It was only a matter of minutes before the flatulence kicked in. See, a few years ago I found out I was lactose intolerant and no longer able to digest dairy products, more to the point, ice cream. It's not a fatal affliction, but let me tell you, the after-effects are not pleasant, if you get my meaning. If you don't, I'll just say this: Ice cream made me a little gassy. Well, super-gassy, to be honest.
I cleared that room out pretty fast. Belinda was a trouper and stayed by my side, but eventually even she had to leave. The photo shoot was put on hold until the next day.
These days Belinda and I are happily married. We have three lovely children all able to digest dairy. That's a good thing. Having one gas bag in the family is enough, because you know what? Rothschild's ice cream is awfully good, and I can't help myself. I have a bowl every day.
About the author
Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. In addition to CafeLit, his stories have appeared in The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways and Paragraph Planet. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com
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