As promised, here’s a
writing exercise I did several years ago. It’s a memory instead of a mundane
task, but the focus is on all five senses. Enjoy!
***
The sweat rolling down
my back soaked into my shirt and plastered it to my skin. Cars zoomed down
Michigan Avenue, horns blaring and tires screeching. The acrid exhaust mixed
with the sweltering air, choking me. I really wanted to go for a dip in the
pool, but it was closed for cleaning. I would have to settle for the next best
thing: ice cream at Ghirardelli’s. I practically ran down the block to the cheery
blue and white striped awning.
I opened the door, and
the air conditioning washed over me like a wave of relief. A smiling lady
handed me a menu, and I stood in line next to the soda bar. Kids and adults perched
themselves atop tall bar stools with red vinyl cushions, eagerly watching the
employees make malts and sundaes. Soon, they’d be making mine.
But what should I get? There
were so many choices! The World Famous Hot Fudge Sundae had two scoops of
vanilla ice cream, warm chocolate syrup, and lots of whipped cream. The Golden
Gate Banana Split had three scoops of ice cream, a banana sliced down the
middle, crushed pineapple, sliced strawberries, chocolate syrup, and even more
whipped cream. Yum! I decided on a butterscotch sundae, though, and placed my
order.
I found a place to sit
next to the window with the awning, where a man was wiping off some tables. The
marble tabletop was still damp when I sat down, and smelled faintly of soap. I
ran my fingers across the wet streaks, the marble cool on my fingertips.
A woman brought ice
cream to the family sitting next to me, and the little boy squealed with
delight. He stuck his hand into the whipped cream of the nearest sundae and
spread it all over his face.
Another woman set my sundae
in front of me. It was huge! The long-stemmed glass was filled to the brim with
vanilla ice cream and butterscotch, and a huge mass of whipped cream—topped
with a cherry—covered the whole thing.
I shoved a spoonful of
whipped cream into my mouth. It was light and fluffy on my tongue, like I
imagined a cloud would taste. I dug my spoon deep into the sundae, emerging with
a dripping mound of ice cream and butterscotch. The sweetness of the ice cream
blended with the richness of the butterscotch, and the cold soothed my hot
tongue and throat. I took another bite, and butterscotch rolled down my chin. Giggling,
I wiped it off and sank in my spoon for a third bite.
Slowly, the sundae disappeared
until all that was left was a mixture of butterscotch and melted ice cream. I
wrapped my sticky fingers around the stem of the glass and scraped out the last
bite—tink-tink-tink! I put it in my mouth, slowly drew out the spoon, and
pressed the butterscotch against the roof of my mouth. I let it ooze down my
throat, savoring every last drop, then dropped the spoon into the empty glass.
It wasn’t a dip in the
pool, but it was close enough.
