At first, I thought I was dreaming.
A soft bassline thumping “Back That Ice Up” floated through my window at 12:03 a.m.
I peeped outside, expecting Mr. Jerry in his neon vest and melted cones.
But no driver. Just the truck, glowing purple, blasting what sounded like a remix of Afrobeats and Gregorian chanting.
I went closer.
“Midnight snack?” the truck asked.
I blinked. The door opened.
Next thing I knew, I was breakdancing in my pajamas to an otherworldly beat, holding a cone of Spicy Regret Swirl.
Now I wait for it every night. I haven’t had normal dreams since.
RE: Qurator's Mischievous Mondays | The Ice Cream Truck Plays Different Music Now