The Man Who Loved Ice-Cream.

I.

  At times, it boils down to the simple sum of a beautiful woman, a bowl of ice cream and any hint of decorum a bowl of ice cream may provide. I saw a television show once.

It was about people making ice cream. They all said that making ice cream was the most enjoyable thing that they had ever done, and that their particular brand of ice cream making was by far hands down the best method, and that eating ice-cream was the most fun a person could ever hope to achieve while still dressed. They were enthusiastic. They loved making ice cream.

The other day I went to see a friend. She is pretty. I rang the doorbell. 

The buzzer sounded like the science project I made for the 4th grade science fair. I wished I hadn’t heard it and that I was not there. We were together once.   

          The curtain opened. She had been asleep. ‘I have ice cream.”, I said. We went inside.

  She said,  “I don’t feel much like talking now.” “I’m  not myself today.”

It was November. I felt sorry for her. I wondered who she was today.

                 ‘I want to make love to you,”  I said, even though that was not at all what I wanted, my voice sounding like an automobile radio.  She stood and looked at me. “Ok,” she shrugged and lit some incense and  a candle, and we went upstairs and fucked quietly for a while, and then smoked a cigarette together and then she went back to bed.

II.

Now it was December. There was water boiling on the stove and the kettle was screeching. I looked at the white cup and the spoon, sleeping in a napkin on the table. I walked over to the refrigerator, took out a carton of ice-cream, and I sat down and ate it.