“Anyone hungry or thirsty?” a still-clothed Nico asks the group.
“What do you have?” Tom asks.
Nico pulls out a big brown paper bag with grease stains on the bottom. “Fries. Homemade. Just made ‘em myself.”
My lip curls. “Old, cold, soggy fries. The ideal beach snack.”
May pinches my leg.
“Don’t have any then,” he says in my direction. “Your loss.”
Tom takes a handful. I hear a crunch. Whatever.
“Nutcrackers?” Nico goes on to ask.
“What flavors did you get?” Tom asks.
“He only had piña colada and…” he looks between the two separate bottles, “…blue.”
“Hit me with the blue.”
Am I salivating? I distract myself by considering the ineffable enigma of the flavor ‘blue.’ “Whatisthe flavor blue?” I ask everyone because I’m being nice and behaving.
Tom shrugs. “It’s just… blue,” he says, like the inarticulate dipshit he is.
May loves this game—another one we’ve played since we were kids. “Is it raspberry?”
“Not quite… But it’s definitely tart and sweet,” I add on.
“A little citrusy.”
“Fruity.”
“It’s more of a concept than a flavor, I think,” Nico adds.
“Yes,” May laughs. “It’s a feeling.”
“Like melted popsicles and childhood nostalgia,” says Nico, shocking me with an insight and a depth well below kiddie pool.
“Like disappointment in a bowling alley.”
“Like skinned knees and fireflies.”
“Blackout descents into jungle-juice oblivion,” I mutter.
May squeezes my hand. “Nico’s a chemist,” she offers. “Why do you think the flavor blue turns your tongue blue?” she asks him, deftly diverting the course of the conversation, because she is the best sister in the universe.
Chef should’ve gone over this in his Chemistry of Candy episode.
Nico looks contemplative. He mutters something that sounds like “synthetic organic compound” or maybe “pathetic botanic ground,” but who knows, because he’s an illiterate gorilla. He eventually shrugs, because of course he doesn’t know. Because he’s an illiterate gorilla chemist, apparently.
Tom glugs half the bottle. I brace myself for the Red Flag Hulk. I hope he gets a brain freeze.
“You guys excited for the wedding?” Nico asks.
I take this opportunity to lay back and disassociate on my towel, overwhelmed by everything happening right now. The dense ape, the soon-to-be drunk dipshit, my Kryptonite summer drink, the impending three thousand dollar train ticket.
“I’m going to walk up to the bathroom,” I hear May say after some time. “Be right back.”
