Froyo Run

Mitchell and I are driving out to that shopping center on the edge of town—the one that’s weirdly calm and quiet, like it exists in its own little bubble away from everything else. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and we’ve got nothing but time and a craving for frozen yogurt.

The place is about twenty minutes out, past the main strip, past the busy intersections and chain restaurants. Out here, it’s all wide parking lots, slower traffic, and people who actually use their turn signals. It’s peaceful in a way that makes you forget you’re still technically in the same city.

We pull into the lot and park near the froyo place—one of those self-serve spots with way too many flavors and a toppings bar that could feed a small army. The kind of place where you always end up with a cup that costs more than you planned because you got carried away with the gummy bears and cookie dough chunks.

“Alright, I’m thinking cake batter and cookies and cream,” Mitchell says as we get out of the car.

“Solid choice. I’m going strawberry cheesecake, maybe some mango if I’m feeling adventurous.”

We’re walking across the parking lot toward the entrance, and that’s when I feel it. The unmistakable pressure. I glance over at Mitchell.

“Yo, I gotta fart,” I say, completely casual.

“Do what you gotta do, man,” he says, not even breaking stride.

So I do. Right there in the middle of the parking lot. Loud. Belligerent. The kind that announces itself with authority. It echoes a little off the parked cars.

I grin. “Dude, that was a good one.”

Mitchell nods, totally unfazed. “Yeah, that was solid. Good resonance. Strong finish.”

“Thank you, thank you,” I say, taking a little bow.

An older couple is getting into their car a few spaces over. They definitely heard it. The woman glances our way, and I just give a friendly wave. Mitchell’s trying not to laugh.

We keep walking, and the automatic doors slide open as we approach the froyo shop. The cold air hits us, and the smell of waffle cones fills the space. There’s maybe three other people in here—total ghost town compared to the ones closer to downtown.

“This place is perfect,” Mitchell says, grabbing a cup. “No crowds, no chaos. Just us and questionable amounts of sugar.”

“And my excellent fart,” I add.

“And your excellent fart,” he agrees, shaking his head with a smile.

We load up our cups, weigh them at the register, and find a booth by the window. The sun’s streaming in, the froyo’s cold and sweet, and honestly? Life’s pretty good right now.

“Best decision we made today,” Mitchell says, spooning some cake batter into his mouth.

“Coming out here or the fart?”

“Both,” he says without hesitation.

I laugh, and we settle in, enjoying the quiet, the froyo, and the fact that sometimes the best days are the simplest ones.