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postcard at the ice cream parlour wander feeds.jpg

At The Ice Cream Parlour

April 16, 2018 in fiction

Everyone wants to go to the Ice Cream Parlour - it bestows an undeniable status of cultured traveler if you do. You must go in winter, to boast about the inside freezer and the inadequate logistics. 

Due to its immense, inarguable presence, most of the spectators will make sure they have an established opinion about it. Arguments can be easily dismissed with an effortless question: ‘... but have you ever been?’. If received with a positive answer, you, my darling, are in for a treat. The discussions are usually heated, unless you are a firm believer that the Ice Cream Parlour is a land of dictatorship, corruption, racism, sexism and any other ‘isms’ with negative connotation. Try and prove otherwise, that it is a place - slash- wonder of balance between modern culture and old-fashioned beliefs, and you will be politely dismissed. Not to say that it is. And it is not. You see, balance.  

The door to the Parlour is only half way open, which means, you can easily get in, but the inhabitants have to put a substantial effort in getting out. This of course is again arguable - everyone is convinced that the door has been a slutty gate for the past 26 years. 

Upon your arrival a voluptuous lady will not greet nor make eye contact, her soda jerk paper hat covered in grease - an evidence of never ending shift; a “no smiles” warning sign above her head. Black tea with milk in a red polka dot cup placed strategically besides the Tzar’s framed portrait with a smirk. He might get a taste of it if he pleases. 

Wooden shelves full of Christmas decorations placed neatly: tiny cut outs of snow flakes, orange squirrels, brown bears and fake candy mock ups sinking peacefully in filthy cotton. A reminder to stay silent, and live your life peacefully without crossing the roads of those who might cotton you to death. Just kidding.  

The Doll shelf is at permanent display. It exhibits what The Ice Cream Parlour considers ‘beautiful’, even though many will make a case of denial. You can take one, if you wish yourself for a pet, but it is expensive to keep. A vicious cycle of plumped lips, cheeks and chins; dyed eyebrows and glued eye lashes; hair must be taken out and put back in. You must dress the creature, take it out (implication: ‘out’ as in OUT of the PARLOUR) and make sure it has enough toys to play with. It will not provide with much entertainment per se, but will give you a notion of status and sexual satisfaction. If you are loaded, you can have more than one. They do not mind. 

The Tzar has been in lawful reign for the past 18 years. The inhabitants do posses a strange feeling of devotion if not love towards him (which he prefers not to return). Many simplify the complication of their feelings in one phrase: "If not Him than Who?". No, really. Out of 143,964,709 inhabitants there must be not a soul, qualified enough. Balance. 

The flavours can be dissected in two simple groups: the ones that obey the law and the ones that do not. The later have a richer blend. There are also the lucky ones, which survive outside the Parlour. Those are bitter, cynical and pretend they have nothing to do with their roots. Which flavour are you?  

The End.  

Tags: wanderfeeds, shortstory, Moscow, Russia, fairytale
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