If I open the freezer, what are the chances I’ll find ice cream? Or will I just find the Man in the Yellow Suit again? Last time we spoke, he couldn’t understand a goddamn word I was saying. Every sentence I threw out was either misheard, reinterpreted, or ignored. Our faces were having their own parallel conversation—mine pleading, his squinting. Every time my lips sang, his brows growled.

I open the freezer. No ice cream. Of course not. But there he is, standing there like he pays rent. Triumphant. Like he knew I’d come crawling back. He taps on a pack of frozen hotdogs with the kind of smug rhythm that makes you want to start throwing things. He waits. He knows I can’t shut the fuck up.

I go for the obvious: “Why are you in my freezer?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Understanding is a form of violence. Curiosity is motive. You invited me.” He talks in long, airless sentences, like a deflating tire leaking prophecy. Then he steps out, knocking over broccoli without apology. I don’t stop him.

“Did you see any ice cream?” I ask, casually, stupidly.

“There’s only guilt in there.
And shame.
And a lasagna from 2019.
You should clean more often.
You really let yourself go too.”

I try to say something, anything—but the words don’t come. Just that familiar knot in my throat. Globus sensation, the old bastard. Loyal as ever.

He opens the fridge this time, rummages like he owns the place, finds a jar of pickles. Opens it. They scream. He goes and sits on the frozen peas. They weep.

“I just wanted to know if there’s ice cream,” I mumble sheepishly. He eats the screaming pickles, one by one, like he’s doing me a favor. I fucking hate pickles.

I start rummaging through the freezer. First with purpose. Then with panic. Maybe he’s right. Most of this shit is expired. Frostbitten boxes of half-eaten hope. Regret in tupperware. Grief in aluminum foil.

“Do you really think ice cream will fix this?”
“Why is a man your age still looking for comfort?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing grown-up things by now?”

The voices stack. They all sound like him. He doesn’t need to speak.

My heart spikes. I try to scream. Nothing. My throat’ is locked. He smirks, the little fucker. He’s enjoying this.

And then—I hear it. The front door. Opens. Closes. Sharp. Deliberate. I look at the clock. Past midnight.

Of course. She’s here.

The Woman in the Little Black Dress.

I just wanted some ice cream. Instead I get a fucking intervention.