It was not just chocolate.

Oh no: it was chocolove.

That was literally what it said on the menu—not some stupid diddy that Chad made up.

Two big scoops of it, perfect to share, and topped with those smirking little chocolate candies that were all the rage.

There was one of the anthropomorphic chocolates on the menu board: a cheeky winking character that grinned like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

The line was packed with couples; everyone in front of Chad was one part of a pair. They all ordered the chocolate special, and strutted back down the line carrying a bowl to share. The hungry couples in line would eye the anointed with open jealousy.

Whenever a twosome reached the front of the queue, the cashier would grin big and shimmy her shoulders and ask them, "Here for a little chocolove?"

Then Chad reached the counter. The uniformed ice cream scooper, dressed in all white, her short pale blond hair tucked under an equally pristine cap, wore her big grin, and her eyes searched to either side of him, and then her grin faltered.

She did not ask him if he wanted some chocolove.

Would they even let him order it, he wondered.

Would they haul him away if he tried?

Sorry, Chad, you're under arrest. Your crime: no one loves you.

"What would you like," the cashier asked finally, plainly.

"Vanilla," Chad replied bitterly.

"Cone or cup."

"Cone."

"One scoop or two?"

"Three."

At least the marina had a beautiful view. The boardwalk that the ice cream stand was situated on offered one of the best vantages to take in lower Manhattan. At sunset, it was as if Chad beheld a marvelous painting that continually evolved. The sun and the towers competed with one another, a natural show of scintillating light versus a dazzling synthetic presentation.

The sun's dying light was neither quiet nor subtle—blazing hot orange, razor sharp shadows. The towers were star-painted; the sky was a cloudless inferno. The color slowly molted as the celestial furnace melted against the horizon; that vibrant orange morphed into gloom.

The buildings displayed columns and blocks of shining squares; some of these blipped off as the workers who inhabited each structure left for the evening. Patterns emerged formed by the lit squares that remained and the windows that went dark. As Chad sat there and licked at his three scoops of vanilla on a cone, he tried to imagine what it was that they formed: that one looked like a dinosaur; this one, a giant robot.

Especially as the ruddy hues faded and shadow swallowed up more of the colors of dusk and transmuted them into evening hues, the city appeared less like a collection of spires and more like a empty void where spectral squares hovered in the nothingness, orphaned spirits. At the base of the towers the red and white lights of traffic drifted by one another like opposing flows of particles.

If only all these damn couples were not around to spoil the view.

Chad was not a particularly angry person. Most of the time, he was actually quite sweet.

But he had had enough. February Fools' Day had been shoved down his throat. There were hearts plastered all over the city; every store he went into played some sappy tune; the world continually assumed that Chad had That Special Someone, and Chad was tired of being reminded of the love that he lacked. It really ground him down: he did not want to go out, and he slept more just to escape reality—to force himself out that evening, to treat himself, had seemed like a good idea, but, oh, what a stupid inkling it had been.

An ice cream parlor—really, Chad?

Today?

Chad shook his head ruefully; "I know," he mumbled to no one in particular.

The dejected man was down to his last scoop when the first barrage of fireworks lit up the night sky in front of him; they were launched the first moment that it was deemed dark enough to fully appreciate the exhibition.

Chad glanced up, startled but in a good way, fully ready to ooh and ahh and be awed—

For fuck's sake.

There in the sky was a massive red heart surrounded by pinwheeling sparklers.

The couples gathered around Chad went "ooh" and "ahh."

They could not simply be pretty lights, could they? A firework display that anyone could enjoy. No. With each boom and crackle, Cupid flew by and slapped Chad across the face.

Hearts. Roses. Lips. Blue and pink sparks that mixed together.

Boom.

Fuck you, Chad.

Hiss.

Fuck you.

Chad frowned up at the sky.

A massive face exploded above him, pinpricks of yellow. It was the face of one of those stupid little chocolates, Chad realized.

He sighed and stood from his bench, turned his back on the display.

Chad did not realize that a pair of revelers were walking right toward him, and half a scoop of ice cream was plenty to create a gooey mess all over this guy's very nice jacket.

The man was taller than Chad. More handsome. Thinner. Stronger. He probably made a lot of money. Probably had a really big cock.

He hit a lot harder than Chad imagined that he could, too, when the guy slugged him square in the nose.

Chad's cone fell and cracked like an eggshell.

Chad slumped onto his knees and coughed.

"Fucking asshole!" The guy said, and kicked at one of Chad's legs.

"Goddamn idiot," the woman with him said.

They waited there, but like an animal frozen in place that hoped its predators might not notice it, Chad did nothing.

Chad sniffled and wiped his wet cheeks as the pair moved on.

He stood and stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked away, giving all the couples who drifted by him a wide berth.

Boom. Crackle. Hiss.

Fuck you, Chad; fuck you.

Chad half-considered going back into the parlor to get a little more ice cream. Vanilla was fine, but really, he had wanted cookies and cream. Those were just spite scoops. Might as well grab something sweet for the train, he thought.

Oddly, there was no one behind the counter; no one in line.

Someone screamed behind Chad; startled, he turned around.

The marina was totally empty. The gloomy boardwalk flashed this color and that as the fireworks continued to go off, but there was no one around to enjoy them. No one but Chad. All of the couples were gone.

That made no sense. It had been packed a moment before.

In the red, then blue, then yellow, then green din, Chad spied heaps everywhere. At first, he was worried that these might be bodies, but no, they were not the right shape for that.

From where he stood, he studied the mounds closest to him: it appeared very much like a pile of clothes.

Chad's first thought was rancorous: it was a romantic mass exodus. All of the couples had shed their clothes to go skinny-dipping, and now wriggled naked in the water.

But no heads bobbed in the water.

All of the little hairs across Chad's flesh stood on end as his more rational center awoke: What was happening here? Might it happen to him?

The man was reminded of one of his favorite episodes of the Twilight Zone; the very first one: where someone wakes up to find that everyone on Earth had disappeared, and that they were inexplicably the only soul who remained.

On another day that might have been a chilling prospect, but on that awful occasion, Chad had to admit, it was not such a terrible thought.

Chad gasped.

Movement: all across the ground before him, tiny shapes flittered to and fro. They scurried like little mice who scattered under the cover of darkness, revealed only by the fireworks above. But they could not be mice. These things ran on two legs. Like little people.

They were little people!

Chad was reminded of another story then, by a writer he adored: the scribe, Nyx, penned a tale in which—like that Twilight Zone episode—a woman discovered that she was the only person on Earth who had not been reduced mysteriously to the size of a bug. Shrinking fantasies were popular to consider in a world with the likes of Formula S, and a genre Chad was particularly drawn to. Nyx's character found herself grappling with her sense of humanity, faced with god-like power over the tiny people around her. . .

Chad glanced down.

In front of his sneakers, a small crowd had formed. A dozen or so tiny naked people gazed up at him. They were hard to see between each vibrant firework flash; their little bodies oscillated between hues, as if they were wholly painted red; purple; blue; green; white; yellow.

Women and men.

Pairs.

People here for a little—shimmy shimmy—chocolove.

Why had they. . .

But not he. . .

Chad's eyes widened; chocolove!

At the front of the group was a couple that Chad recognized: the man who stole the rest of Chad's scoop with his jacket, who had punched Chad; the woman who was with him.

They waved their arms up at him as one might at a rescue plane, desperate to escape the wilds.

They need help. I should call the police. I should take them to a hospital. I should—

That little man's face; his tiny lips; "Fucking asshole," his voice repeated in Chad's head.

Boom. Crackle. Hiss.

Fuck you, Chad.

Shimmy shimmy.

Chad sneered.

He kicked at the man in the dark.

Boom; there was his little body, but his head was missing, and there was a long line of blood that showed which way it had gone. Next to his fallen form, his lover held her head and wailed.

Crackle; the crowd scattered—all the tiny shapes in front of him fled.

Hiss; the ground before him was empty, save for the body of the tiny man who Chad had decapitated.

In the light of the fireworks, Chad noticed a dark splotch on the toe of his sneaker. The murder weapon; point of impact. Chad stared at the stain with wide eyes.

Then his face relaxed.

How long had it taken Nyx's character to unravel her humanity, in that story he had read how many times?

You're a monster, Chad.

"I know," Chad whispered

He chased after the tiny shapes in the dark, in the flashes of light.

He gathered them up in his fists, and his fists quickly filled; he scooped them up in discarded ice cream cups, and those cups quickly filled.

If only Chad could see himself. What an insane figure he appeared, dashing back and forth, cackling, in that wild flickering light across a waterfront that should have been fully packed by an amorous crowd.

"I'm not insane," Chad protested.

He entered the little ice cream parlor. It was not empty or deserted, he found: no, the attendants had also enjoyed a little chocolove. He scooped them all up, including the cashier who was so blasé before.

By the time Chad was done, he had dozens of squirming naked little people included in his collection. They were various sizes; some were a full inch tall—those who were largest—and others ranged all the way down to something like a centimeter.

Chad was suddenly self conscious. He had dumped his gathered tinies into an empty ice cream drum. Now, it seemed, all their eyes were on him.

"Hello, everyone," Chad stammered. "Don't worry, I'm not going to. . ."

Chad had held up his hands in what he meant to be a reassuring gesture.

In the lit parlor, he noticed how his hands were covered in blood.

There were tiny bodies stuck to his fingers.

Chad glanced between his gruesome hands and the tub full of people.

Screams and shrieks and shouts bubbled up from the dozens in the drum.

"No, no, no. Shhh." Chad leaned down over them. His genial expression slowly melted. "Stop it!" An angry smile. "I'll make you stop!"

His next movements were quick and mechanical.

Chad grabbed a large spoon.

Ah, there was the cookies and cream—he took a generous scoop.

Chad then plunged the loaded spoon into the roiling mass of naked flesh; when he raised the scoop up to his face, there were a dozen people all shapes and colors—most of them as small as grains as rice; a few larger—stuck to the ice cream.

He opened his mouth as wide as it would go.

And watched the writhing scoop pass underneath his nose.

Chad's teeth and lips closed, and his mouth was stuffed with the mixture.

Cream. Cookies. Squirming bodies.

He pushed his tongue through the mass, pushed the little people all around.

And then Chad's jaw came together and he chewed.

The cream was soft and yielding.

The cookies, a little more firm, but just as sweet.

The people burst, little pockets of salt—their bones crunched.

Chad chewed and chewed and he smiled.

The salt was pleasing. It was unlike, say, salt poured into coffee, and more a shock of sea salt on a piece of chocolate.

What a wonderful crunch.

Thinking on it, it struck Chad that this should have been gross. It was anything but.

Oh no, Chad: you just discovered that little people make a wonderful ice cream topping.

"Yes," Chad murmured.

He swallowed and licked his lips, and loomed over the tub full of people. "I'm a monster," Chad told them.

They screamed in agreement.

"I'm going to gobble you all up!"

They screamed and screamed.

Chad took his time and prepared himself a proper bowl of ice cream.

He heaped it high his favorite flavors, raided the fixings section, sprinkled his mountainous dessert with his new favorite topping.

They whined and protested and Chad had to herd them with his spoon to keep them from escaping, for his bowl ran over. Some of them fell, but Chad did not care. He laughed as they splattered against the tiled floor, or smeared those who survived under his sneaker.

His treat only needed one last touch: he scanned his tub of victims to see who might serve as his cherry on top; he spotted the cashier from earlier and grinned ear to ear.

Chad plucked her up, dunked her in red syrup, and dropped her onto his hill of scoops.

The man sat on the ground of the parlor behind the counter and ate scoop after squirming scoop. Sugar and salt. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Oh, it was wonderful.

"Yes it is," Chad murmured around his sloppy chewing. Cream ran down his chin; blood ran down his chin.

He ate a circle around his shimmying little cashier; he giggled and watched

The longer that his captives stayed in his dessert, they grew cold and hard. The crackle of their bone was less bitter and unpleasant. They were like chocolate out of the freezer, but with that touch of salt. And the blood! Oh, their blood was a nice warm blast, like hot fudge, but not as thick.

The syrup-coated cashier managed to free herself from the summit, and rolled down the hillside of cream.

Chad scooped her up and crunched her in his mouth, too.

Oh, she tasted particularly sweet.

When he was finished with his bowl, he was full. Overly full. Those three—well, two and a half—scoops from earlier would have been enough. His belly was big and round and full. Chad studied the bulge of his belly. How many people had he consigned to its depths?

The man burped.

He giggled and rubbed his stomach.

There was barely anyone left in his drum.

Still, he eyed them greedily.

A promise was a promise.

"Why, yes it is!"

His spoon dived into the nearest tub of ice cream, then plunged into the drum of people, then slotted into his mouth.

Scoop, scoop, gulp.

Over and over.

One flavor after the next.

Chad cackled and gobbled all the little people up, just like he said he would.

In the tub, they tried to escape from his falling spoon. They ran all around. They shoved and pushed one another—they even tried to toss people at his approaching scoop, as if he would be satisfied, and would not come back for them.

Chad laughed. "Silly itty-bitties!"

Cookies and cream. Strawberry. Rocky road. Cookie dough. Green tea. Chocola—

Chad paused.

There on the spoon was a grinning face, bit in half.

His eyes sank toward the tub.

The tub that read "chocolove."

Slowly, the man looked up.

Boom; an explosion outside the parlors windows, a formation of brilliant yellow dots that formed a grinning face—that face.

"Oh no," Chad whimpered.

Crackle!

He looked down at himself; he was falling into the dark void of his billowing clothing.

Hisss!