I was planning to talk to my boss about the possibility of working throughout August -- my archaeological excavation in Israel is in question because of the escalating violence. But that will have to wait. It's the Monday evening rush at Rita's Italian Ice in Oakland, and we've got ice to serve.

		Boaz Munro, a graduate of the Pittsburgh High School for the Creative and Performing Arts, will be a sophomore at Brown University this fall (boazmunro@gmail.com).

During the rare moments of quiet, we slide our windows shut against the thick soupy heat outside and lean against the counters and let the air conditioning blow through our sweat. The nurses and bank tellers of Pittsburgh want their share of the cold, and we're in business to shell it out the windows in small red and white cups as quickly and in as many flavors as possible. Work is a game of inventories and efficiency: Keep up the stocks of cups, lids, napkins, spoons, cards, paper towels, pretzels, coins and ice; keep down the lines.

An oldish woman -- I'd hesitate to call her elderly -- rolls up to my window in an electric wheelchair. Her chair-bound height is about four feet. I lean out onto the counter into the heat and smile.

"Hi, welcome to Rita's, how can I help you today?"

"Hello, sir. I'd like chocolate with ice." She's foreign, Middle Eastern or something. I'm really not sure.

I explain to her that we have chocolate custard, and that chocolate with ice would be a Gelati, which is a layer of ice with custard above and below. I pantomime the layers. By the time I communicate this to her, the other cashiers have each cycled through two transactions.

	Stcy Innerst, Post-Gazette

The people in the queue behind her have realized they chose the wrong window. They shift their weight and eye the other lines, weighing their chances at cutting across without confrontation.

My customer still doesn't really understand the difference between custard and ice, and after another minute -- a minute! -- of confusion and embarrassed laughter, I bring her samples of custard and ice. I should've brought them earlier; no longwinded explanation of our Water Ice or custard-which-is-a-lot-like-ice-cream can convey what taste buds can. Though maybe I'm dawdling on purpose because she's so pleasant.

Immediately she points to the custard. "This."

"Chocolate?"

"What's this?"

"Chocolate."

"Oh. No, get me something else."

"Well, we have vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, vanilla mixed with chocolate, or vanilla mixed with strawberry." I rattle the incarnations of custard off like ammunition. The woman behind her rolls her eyes.

"I'll have the chocolate vanilla mix, please."

"What size would you like?" I show her a cup.

"What size is that?"

It takes another minute to explain that all sizes come in the same cup, and that the only variable is the amount of custard that goes in it. Finally she orders a regular.

I smile at her. She exhales and smiles back. It's a big achievement.

I remind her that she has bought a regular chocolate vanilla custard twist in a cup, and that if she likes it she should come back and buy it again sometime. I also tell her my name. She tells me hers.

"What kind of name is that?" I ask.

"What kind?" She doesn't understand.

"Where does it come from?"

"Palestine."

"Palestine?"

"Not Pakistan," she says, pre-emptively correcting what must be a common mistake, "Palestine."

"Yeah, Palestine. Where in Palestine are you from?" The word tastes unfamiliar. I usually say the occupied territories or the West Bank or something.

"Ramallah. Do you know the area?"

"Yes, actually. I have family in Israel. I'm going over there soon for school." Her eyes widen and she smiles.

"Oh. Are they ... I assume..." she stammers, collecting her words, "they are Jewish?"

"Yes," I say, self-righteously bracing myself for a racist slur or prejudiced muttering.

"So you are Jewish?"

I look her in the eye. Damn straight I'm Jewish. Wanna make something of it? "Yep."

She laughs. "Nice to meet you!" She extends a small, elegant hand. I take it in mine. They fit. I try to think of something to say.

"Um, I hope things get better over there."

She puts her other hand around mine. "You know," she says, and it seems she trying to pull me closer, "the Palestinians are really good people."

"I know that."

"And we all just want peace. Jews and Arabs all want peace."

"Yeah, I know."

She keeps her gaze fixed on me, making sure I understand. Finally she releases my hand. "OK, let me taste this. At home we have something like it, maybe this is similar."

"I hope you like it." She tastes the custard and grins at me from under a small creamy chocolate and vanilla moustache. The customers behind her have dispersed in frustration.

"Good," she says.

"I like it, too," I reply. She wheels off into the thickening darkness.