It is hot and I decide that something advertised as a 'snowball' sounds appealing. I approach the counter and am faced with a bamboozling variety of flavours.
'This is how we decide', says the man behind the counter handing me a plastic teaspoon. Into it he pours brightly-coloured syrups which I have to taste before he reveals what they are. I try ruby pomegranate, cucumber and melon, chocolate, sour apple and egg custard. I chose the sour apple. The server, who is young, wears a dark green apron over a lighter green polo-shirt. His hair is a short buzz-cut and he has metal-rimmed glasses. His eye-contact is slightly squiffy.
'Okay then', he says and proceeds to shave a block of ice into tiny shards. 'Hold out your hand', he says and gives me a handful of the powdered ice. It does feel like snow. 'That's what it's like', he says. He fills a cup with the snow and copious quantities of the viscous emerald green liquid.
Ten minutes later I pass the stall again. 'How was your snowball?' he asks. 'Very good', I reply because it was. I ask my question. He tells me his first name first and then his middle. He is from a nearby state and recently moved to the city that needs ways to cool down.
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