“I love pistachio.” She returns with my robe wrapped around her body like it’s her property now. If she asked, I’d give it to her. It looks a hell of a lot better on her than on me. “What else?” She takes me by my unbroken arm and tries to pull me to my feet. “What other flavors?”
It’s almost maniacal how she transitions from one mood to the next. The serious side is gone. Her upbeat demeanor keeps me on my toes, literally. I walk with her hand firmly attached in mine. Selfishly, I like this side of her. It’s almost like we’re not trying to fuck each other over. The good in her brings out my better side. “Chocolate with blood orange mixed in.”
“Incredible.”
Like her.
I’m such a sucker for a pretty face and lips that taste like the finest liquor that money can buy. I’m a fucking fool for this woman’s attention. Why does it feel like sunshine on a cloudy day? I eat it up, not realizing how starved I’ve been to have someone look at me like I hung the moon for them. I’m sure the feeling will fade as fast as it came on, but I’m going to enjoy the moment. How can I not when the gleam in her eyes resuscitates the very organ I didn’t think could be saved?
She almost skips to the kitchen, as the anchor weighing her down—me—has finally been released. Her joy is contagious, and all because of gelato. I knew I could convert her over from ice cream, but I’m learning she didn’t lie about the sweet tooth. It’s definitely a way to this girl’s heart. I just wish she craved to finish what was started in the bedroom more. The ache in my belly subsides, but my lingering blue balls have me shifting for a better position on this stool. “Raspberry, stracciatella, lemon, and a lavender basil mix. I went out on a limb with the last one.”
“What flavor are we starting with?” I ask as I settle in to watch her maneuver around my kitchen.
With the freezer door open, she peeks back at me. “We only get to try one?”
I would laugh, but she’s dead serious. “Let’s try them all.”
The pint containers are lined up on the counter in front of me before she leaps in excitement and then scurries to the silverware drawer. Looking inside, she says, “Tell me this isn’t real silver.”
The judgment doesn’t bother me. I have expensive taste, but I’m not that extravagant. “It’s stainless. I prefer stainless steel to having to maintain silver. Anyway, it’s only me here, so I don’t need anything fan—” Our eyes lock across the small space, both of us, apparently, realizing the grave error we’ve made at the same time.
As my wife, she would know the answer.
As her husband, I wouldn’t have responded like I did.
But here we are, stuck in a tangled web in the aftermath.
I’m not sure what to say when it actually goes so well. I managed to flip my mood in accordance with hers. Why’d we have to fuck it up? The reality of what we are now is exposed, lying like a death of something good. “I . . .” I release a heavy breath and then look down to stare at the counter like I’ll find a plan on how to proceed in the swirls of the stone.
“Big or little?” she asks, holding up two spoons and carrying on like our secrets aren’t closing in on us.
Following her lead, this one time, I reply, “Big.”
“I’ll take the little spoon.” She comes over and hands me the spoon without making eye contact. Another tell that I’m positive I’ll read too much into. As she takes the lids off the containers, she asks, “Can you eat with your left? You didfine with a burger and fries, but gelato is a different ball game.”
We didn’t get away with anything, but she’s a master sidestepper. “We’ll see.”
She grasps the bottom of the chocolate blood orange pint. “I’ll hold it. Dig in.”
I scoop the creamy treat and take the spoon into my mouth, slow to slide it out. Watching her spoon dive in after mine, she doesn’t waste time tasting it. “I like that one.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“I can see why. Or taste why.” A giggle bubbles up like champagne—the unexpected, quiet burst is something to be savored. I end up smiling for several reasons, but mainly because it’s odd how things with her evolve from one minute to the next. I was tasting her not fifteen minutes ago, and now I’m eating gelato like it stands a chance against the sweetness of her lips. The slip with the silverware doesn’t seem to matter as much. Knowing that this is probably an act, like everything else she does, doesn’t deter me from starting to appreciate her quirks.
Grabbing the base of the next pint, she says, “Try it and guess the flavor.”
I already know what it is by the color, but I’ll play along. One bite is all it takes to confirm what I knew. “Pistachio.”
Sliding the spoon from between her lips, she licks the corner and says, “Salty and sweet. I always did have an affinity for the opposites.”
“Opposites attract. Like us?”
A wrinkle of her nose leads to a grin spreading after. “I’ll assume you’re inferring I’m the sweet one.” I tip my head, giving the title without argument though salty might be a better fit. “You’re definitely the salty one between us. Howmany hours a day do you think you’re grumpy, Warner? I’m going with eighteen.”
“So fucking random,” I say, chuckling. “Why eighteen?”
“Figure you typically sleep for six so that leaves you wide awake and wreaking havoc on the rest of us for the remaining hours.” She thinks she’s funny by how she cackles and digs into the next pint. This time, I’ll concur.She is.
