Gelato

For two years now, Leonard’s wife hasn’t wanted to have sex with him. He figures it might have to do with her mother passing, or maybe it’s because both their kids are in college and the house is empty. Maybe it’s biological. He has no idea. Hell, for all he knows, it could be the cat puke. Their tabby bolts her food nearly every morning, and even though Leonard tries to find the mess before his wife has to deal with it, maybe cleaning up all that chunky, mucous, slop, has finally killed off her libido. He’s not sure, and he doesn’t blame her. If anything, he blames himself. He feels culpable in a way he doesn’t understand.

To find answers, he’s read a stack of vintage Cosmo magazines that he bought at Goodwill and a shelf worth of relationship books from the library. On his phone, he cruises Reddit’s Dead Bedroom forum and tunnels through the wormhole of YouTube. There are also chat rooms. Spread out across the country are others just like him. Leonard commiserates, he swaps tales, offers what little guidance he can. He also gets invited. There are meetups. Men and women looking to comfort each other. To get from each other what they can’t get at home. There is a meeting tonight at the Texas Roadhouse just across town.

Leonard has resolved to attend. As a cover he’s told his wife that he’s joined a bowling league. Just a bunch of guys from work. Drinking beer and throwing strikes. Don’t wait up. After showering and slapping on too much aftershave, he unzips his bowling ball bag to double-check that the box of Trojans is still there. When he looks up, he sees his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He unbuttons the top button on his shirt, then realizes he looks like a creep. Hastily, with his thick fingers trembling, he buttons it back up, trying to ignore the fact that he now looks like a sleazy businessman on the prowl.

On his way out, he pauses at the patio door. Outside, wearing sweatpants and a shawl draped over her shoulders, his wife is on a wicker chair, lost in a well-worn paperback. Alright, dear, he says, trying to keep his voice even. I’m leaving, he says, just wanted to say goodnight.

You look nice, she says, putting down her book and standing. Before you go, I wanted to give you something.

You did?

You remember our honeymoon? she asks.

He does. She wore lingerie. Purchased from a boutique in Austria. A complexity of lace across her bosom, red fabric stretched taut across her backside. There were these clips that hung down and pulled up her stockings.

One moment, she says, walking past him into the house.

Would she really purchase lingerie? Anything was possible. Years ago, many years ago, on a frigid mid-February morning, she had visited his apartment unannounced. When he opened the door to the bracing cold, she was standing there on the stoop, wearing an oversized parka that went past her knees. Once inside, she unzipped the fur liner. To his surprise, she was naked underneath, her hands freezing but her body warm and welcoming.

When she comes back she’s traded the shawl for a hooded sweatshirt, the paperback for two bowls. She hands him one.

What’s this? He asks.

Gelato. Vanilla.

Gelato?

I saw it at the grocery store, a new brand, she says, sitting back down on the wicker chair. And I thought of you.

You thought of me?

Yes, she says. Remember Italy, our honeymoon? The vendor with his big booming voice? Every time we were near his cart, you had to stop and order a scoop of each flavor. You spent a small fortune.

Leonard doesn’t remember, and he holds his spoon awkwardly as if he’s never used an eating utensil before. The gelato sits in his dish, white, with specks of brown, a frozen lump that’s about as far away from sex as he can imagine.

Come on, she says, watching him, smiling at his bewilderment. You were wild about gelato.

Only one bite, he promises himself, stabbing the gelato with his spoon. The group isn’t going to stay at Texas Roadhouse all night. He didn’t splurge on the twenty-pack for nothing.

Tentatively, Leonard takes a lick. The gelato is denser than ice cream. The vanilla flavor bright and spicy, almost floral. More like the idea of vanilla than actual vanilla. The man, he remembers now, was named Giovanni. Giovanni’s Gelato. At dusk, parked on a cobblestone lane, surrounded by all those tall buildings stained Baralo red, Giovanni’s cart would be all lit up with votive candles sputtering away in little glass jars. Giovonni liked to tease Leonard. Said the reason Leonard was so hungry was because he was in love, and Leonard’s love was going to help Giovanni retire early, help him send his daughters off to college overseas.

Leonard remembers the joy he felt in the simple act of holding his wife’s hand, his new wife, as they strolled along the lanes and talked about everything and nothing, talked for the sake of talking. He remembers how each time they approached Givonni’s cart, the man would spread his arms wide in the fading light and roar, Thank God for Leonard’s love!

How could he ever forget, Leonard wonders to himself, scooping more and more gelato until his spoon is fruitlessly scraping the side of the bowl.