"Want an ice cream?"
That's a question I probably have been asked before in my life, but never when commuting home by bus.
My reading attention flickered as my left eye and ear detected a box being shaken in the periphery. It contained prewrapped ice-cream cones and was held in a hand at the end of an arm clad in a beige trench coat. The owner of the coat wore a backwards baseball cap atop stringy blond hair. He was grinning, and his other hand gripped a skateboard.
"Want an ice cream?" he asked again.
"No," I said, "thank you."
With a tilt of his head, he conveyed a silent, "Your loss." He proceeded along the aisle, inviting every other passenger to partake of a frozen treat. Most accepted. He made his way to the front of the bus where I heard him ask the driver if eating on board would be okay. All around the bus, satisfied lip smacks punctuated the question. The driver's eyes, I noticed, flashed to the rearview mirror. He acquiesced, just asking that people not leave trash behind. "Cool," the man said, then asked if the driver wanted ice cream, too. The driver declined.
The man passed me on the way back to his seat, tried once more: "Sure you don't want one?"
"Nah, I'm good," I said. And I was -- arguably better than I would've been had a stranger not boarded the bus on my way home from work and started handing out ice cream.