Strolling, hand-in-hand with Roger down Main Street, I felt special. People waved at us and shouted their congratulations. As a Drygen, I had never been treated like a part of the community. People had always kept their distance. In their defense, I never made myself approachable.
As we neared the ice cream parlor on Main Street, I breathed in the sweet smells of waffle cones, and my mouth watered at the thought of the cheeseburger I would be eating. Instead of giving the restaurant a name, it had a painted image of an ice cream shake and a hamburger above the storefront. Some people called it “Jackson’s,” after the owners, but most just called it “the ice cream parlor.”
“I hear congratulations are in order. My, aren’t you a lovely couple,” Mrs. Jackson brightly greeted us.
“Thank you.
