It’s all true
I was there
I saw it happen

There’s a queue in the ice cream shop. We don’t mind waiting. We stand, self-marshalled, drooling as we make our selections.

A sudden presence announces arrival. Heavy footfalls, a bustling, now a careless bump flings me sideways. A large person, female, strides to the front of the queue, pauses, changes course. Now she bustles around the counter and takes up a position behind the counter. The ice cream lady, a year-twelve student, looks up from her scooping, amazed. Big Bertha, a good deal taller and twice as wide as the young woman, looks myxoedematous, has no eyes for Ice Cream Girl. Her gaze rests on the ice creams silent in their steel canisters. Ice Cream Girl opens her mouth to speak, to remonstrate. No sound emerges. The intruder now bends forward, her heavy breasts pendulous above pistachio cream and French vanilla. Ice Cream Girl looks around, searching for higher authority, but there is none. She summons a frown, takes half a step forward, squeaks indignantly.: ‘Excuse me! You can’t…”        

The large woman gives no heed. She opens her wet mouth, draws in a breath, then spits. A generous volume of spittle volleys widely, showering upon pistachio, vanilla, and burned caramel. My intended choice was caribbean cacao; leaning forward, peering, I can’t see any fresh saliva layering the cacao. But can I trust it?

Meanwhile, the moving spitter, having spat, moves on. With a graceful sway of the hips she rounds the counter, bears for the doorway, and is gone.