No, let’s go.

We park a block off Montana and cross the street to avoid Aunt Jessica’s store so she will not see us.

Normally she would give me money and I would buy us the ice cream, but she goes to the counter while I wait at a white plastic table, then returns with our food. Even though we are inside, it is a patio table, a canvas sun umbrella sprouting from its middle, the walls around us painted like a tropical landscape. I picked a middle table because I know she likes to sit in cafés among people, though she never talks to them. She bought a nonfat frozen yogurt for herself and a chocolate sundae with nuts and extra whipped cream for me and I eat it all and scrape the last melted bits up against the paper side and lick my spoon clean as she watches. We wait for our dinner appointment with Aunt Jessica, pretending to watch the shoppers pass outside, though at times I can feel her regarding me.

I stare at the paper cup on the table before me. Finally she reaches out and touches my cheek with her warm fingers.

Oh, Gabrielito, she says.

The plastic spoon lies in the empty container, its handle leans against the paper rim. Outside somebody passes the window; their shadow flickers across the glass and over our table and on her arms and face.

She removes her warm hand from my face and looks out the window. Her jaw trembles like an old woman’s. She still wears her wedding ring.

It looks so different.

What?

All the people, she says. This street was always so empty a few years ago. Your Aunt Jessica always complained about not having restaurants nearby. Now she complains about all the strange people, even though she gets more customers.

I nod.

You want to sit outside?

Do you?

It’s sunnier now.

Sure.