I first noticed the ice cream truck parked near the park on a scorching Tuesday afternoon. It was one of those old converted vans with the jingle music that played on loop, painted white with red stripes and a big cartoon cone on the side.
Four guys ran it, all in their late twenties or early thirties, always laughing and joking while they scooped. They wore matching black t-shirts with the truck's name on the chest— "Cool Treats"—and shorts that showed off their legs from all the standing and walking they did.
The one who usually worked the window had short dark hair, an easy smile, and arms that looked strong from lifting tubs of ice cream all day. His name was Mike. The others rotated in and out. Dave with the tattoos, Carlos who was stocky and always smiling, and Ben who was quiete
