Ice Cream Around the World

 

Narrow roads, alleys littered with children and dogs. Hungry for a place to lay our heads. Moist smells in the air carried from the coast over the volcano range where dinners roast on spits. Feverish nights, onward to this place.

            I daydream of a wind that dreams of home, of a sister wind that has been nowhere and dreams of no thing.

My temporary lover and I, we walk through the alley languid under the weight of our bags, crave something sweet: pineapples take a year to ripen in a field banked by rainforest; cream and sugar, local; a waffle cone, imported; a cherry fresh from a cherry tree grown from Japanese seeds; dipped in dark chocolate, beans picked by a family of fingers.

Chocolate drips onto the shop girl’s hand. She licks at it with a tiny slurping sound escaping into the air in the alley, hands the cone across the wooden counter.

            Awkwardly, he pays. I taste first, he tastes second. I wonder, but forget to ask, if he tastes the same things as me.

 

 

- Jen Ferguson