The Hot Chocolate Incident

I sat by my Dad next to the tent on the Snohomish River, watching his familiar moves in thirsty anticipation.

“Hot chocolate?” My Dad asked, knowing the answer.

I was a kid, of course I wanted hot chocolate. I wanted an IV full of it attached to me at all times. 

My Dad heated up some water on his stove. 
I was so excited.
Hot chocolateeeeeeee.
The drink of the Gods.

I waited 5 years for the water to boil. With precision my Dad poured the water into my mug over the chocolate powder in the base and swirled the kid crack around with a spoon.
I held my breath.

HOT CHOCCCOOOLLLAAATTEEEEEE.

My Dad finally gifted me the plastic cup full of the dessert broth. My small hands cuddled the drink with immeasurable gratitude. 

I drank the whole thing.

Fuck it tasted amazing. 

The experience felt wondrous, like a hug for my tongue. 
My eyes sank into the mug, sad, as if maybe I could stare hard enough and will more liquid to be there.

Instead, the bottom of the mug had two mouse turds stuck to it. 

My Dad hadn’t checked when he dumped the powder in.

That hot chocolate was the shit.

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