The Melting Point

The orange summer afternoon was heavy, pressing against the windows like a physical weight. Inside Carey’s apartment, the air conditioner had surrendered; it rattled in the corner, blowing only a humid, stale breath that did little to combat the stifle.

Carey had already swept her hair into a high bun to save the back of her neck, and a cold shower had provided only five minutes of relief before the heat reclaimed her. Now, she lay sprawled on her recliner in skimpy sports shorts and a thin white t-shirt, too lethargic to move.

She thought of the case of water she’d hauled up the stairs earlier that morning—a task that had exhausted her but realized she’d left it sitting in the hallway. By now, the bottles would be lukewarm, plastic-tasting, and unrefreshing.

Then, she remembered the freezer.

Buried deep in the ice tray was a box of Rocket Pops. They were a purchase made on a whim, an artifact of nostalgia: red, white, and blue tiers of frozen sugar shaped like a ballistic missile.

When Carey tugged the freezer door open, the chilled air swirled out like a ghost, kissing her flushed face. She peeled the wrapper off a pop, returned to her recliner, and looked out at the shimmering city skyline. In the haze, the skyscrapers looked like melting popsicles themselves.

The first taste—sweet, artificial cherry—rushed her backward in time. Suddenly, she wasn’t in a sweltering apartment; she was ten years old on a country road. The red tip was "lipstick," applied heavily before strutting down a soapy Slip ‘N Slide runway, pretending to be a supermodel while the neighborhood boys watched. She remembered trying to kiss round-faced Heath Cooper with her sticky red lips, and how he had run away in terrified delight.

Carey smiled, painting her own lips now with the melting cherry tip for old time’s sake.

The flavor shifted to lime, dragging up memories of "Ice Tag." The terror and thrill of a boy grabbing her shirt collar and dumping a cup of crushed ice down her back. She could almost feel the phantom ice sliding down her spine, her body twisting to keep the freezing cubes from scorching her smooth skin. It was a torture that always ended in laughter, wet shirts, and damp shorts.

Carey was so lost in the memory that she didn’t notice the real melt until a heavy drop of red syrup landed on her chest.

"Damn it," she muttered.

She hurried to the kitchen sink, balancing the popsicle on a dish as she peeled off her t-shirt. She scrubbed the fabric under the tap, but the red stain only spread into a stubborn pink blotch. Defeated, she tossed the wet shirt over a chair and returned to the living room, topless.

Without the shirt, the stagnant air felt slightly more bearable. The first popsicle was a lost cause, a puddle in the dish, so she unwrapped a second one. This one was fresh, smoking with cold.

On an impulse, she lowered the frozen cherry point toward her breast.

When the ice touched her nipple, she gasped, her back arching off the recliner. It was a shock to the system the sensation of Ice Tag, but concentrated, intimate. Her shoulders collapsed forward, a natural defense, but she didn’t pull away.

Intrigued, she cupped her breast, tracing the gradient of the popsicle from red to blue against her skin. She hissed through her teeth, biting her lip as her nipple hardened against the wintry sting. She drew a line around her areola, watching the flesh shrivel and react, before lifting her breast to lick away the melting red droplets.

She moved to the other breast, letting the lime center cool her skin. She pressed the popsicle into the valley between her breasts and dragged it down her stomach, leaving a sticky, cooling trail of lime all the way to her belly button.

The lime flavor brought a different memory. Wayne Harlan. He was a paradox of a teenager with grunge hair but boy-band clothes, tattoos drawn on with ballpoint pens.

"Ever showed them to anyone?" he’d asked her once, idling at a red light in his beat-up sedan.

"Showed what?"

"Your tits."

She had covered her chest instinctively. "No."

"I want to be the first," he’d said with a wink. "I’m good at it."

She had sworn she wouldn't let him look. Her breasts had felt like foreign objects then, things that forced her into training bras. But when he parked in the shopping center lot and turned those dark eyes toward her, her resolve and her shirt had vanished.

In the present, Carey’s hand slid into her shorts. The heat of the room was oppressive, contrasting violently with the ice in her hand and the memory of Wayne’s teenage boldness.

She moved the popsicle lower. The blunt, lime end hovered centimeters above her clitoris. She could feel the cold radiating off it, a silent threat. One touch would be electric.

The heat made her do it.

She pressed the ice against her most sensitive spot. Her hips bucked, her lungs seizing a chest full of air. It teetered on the edge of pain, a freezing burn that made her muscles clench. She did it again—a quick tap. Then a third time, holding it there for three seconds. She struggled to control her breathing, her body fighting the urge to flee the cold while her mind reveled in the intensity.

Soon, the popsicle lost its structural integrity. It melted over her fingers, a mess of red and blue syrup. Her hand was sticky, her nipples hard, and her body throbbing from the thermal shock.

She set the stick aside and rushed to her bedroom, retrieving her DOT Travel. It was shaped like an oversized lipstick case sleek, precise, and incapable of melting.

Settling back down, she rested her feet on the windowsill, spreading her legs to the city. The skyline watched, the hundreds of glass windows reflecting the sun like voyeuristic eyes.

The vibration of the toy was a soothing balm after the shock of the ice. The sharp memories of childhood games and teenage fumbles faded, replaced by the crashing of ocean waves in her mind. Her grip tightened on the device.

She imagined Wayne’s mouth, but softer now. She imagined the strut of the Slip ‘N Slide, but with an adult’s confidence.

As the climax took her, the room went blank. The oppressive orange heat shattered into white noise. Her feet slipped from the windowsill, her knees went limp, and the tension drained out of her, leaving her covered in a sheen of sweat that finally, mercifully, felt cool.