Two stories of new boutique ice cream parlor, crawling with snotty, orange shirt-wearing summer campers, and a three piece suit stands in the middle, peachy, pale, and sweating.

Dave is on a date with his best Tinder match in months. Dave is in line behind a 7-year-old dumpling of a child who is sorting through his pocket change, counting, recounting quarters under his breath. His date is waiting for him on the second floor with only twenty-eight minutes of lunch break left.

With all the machismo his 401k can offer, Dave cuts in front of the counting dumpling.

The woman behind the counter narrows her eyes, and Dave, pretending not to notice, orders a Mexican hot chocolate sundae. She leaves to prepare his order.

Something yanks on Dave’s sleeve. He looks down. A small girl asks him, “What’s your name, mister?”

“Dave,” Dave answers.

“You cut Grayson, White Dave,” she says.

Dave stutters and looks at Grayson the dumpling, whose freckled face is near tears.

“Not nice, White Dave,” the girl asserts, arms crossed.

“I— … Did you call me ‘White Dave’?”

The girl points up and down at Dave. “You look like an egg without the yolk.”

Grayson snickers.

“Your sundae, sir.”

Dave turns to find his over-stacked sundae is waiting on the counter. Dave pays before anyone else can call him yolkless, and hurries to his table. His date plucks the receipt off the bottom of the sundae bowl and asks why the order name is “White Dave.”