26F – Gelato

I peer through the frosted glass, unconvinced.

“Happiness?”

It sounds like a tall order, but there it is. A bright, lemon yellow mass, softening and melting around the edges.

“Happiness.”

He says it like he’d say Chocolate. Or Rum and Raisin. Or Banana. He reaches all the way into the freezer with huge, hairy arms, sleeves rolled around the elbows, the shirt stained behind a spotless apron. In goes the spoon, and he gives it a twist, like he has a sale.

“One scoop?”

“What flavour is it?”

A curled lip. He makes a play of reading the label, leaning all the way over the glass counter, those arms draped across it.

“Let me see… Yes, it does appear to be…  Haaappeeeeness”.

I look across the other tubs. A sea of bad names. Vanilla has to be “Joy”. Banana becomes “Bliss”. Jesus. What’s wrong with Lemon Sorbet?

Why do they have to make everything so goddam complicated?

“No, I’m asking what’s the actual flavour? What’s it taste like?”

He looks up at me, shakes his bald head. He snatches up a little tasting spoon, a clear, plastic, disposable thing, and digs it into the Happiness.

“Flavour, flavour, its all the same. Is happiness! Here, try some!”

He thrusts the taster forward, but not to me. To my right, to a woman, sixty-odd, shrunken. She’s wearing sandals and socks, thin brown socks that collect in lumps around her ankles. I take a half step away from her without quite knowing why.

“Oooo,” she says.

He waves he taster with a little flourish, hands it to her.

“Happiness”, he says.

“Oooo,” she says again.

She snatches the spoon, holds it for a moment in front of her face. In an instant the little yellow mound is gone. In its place is this huge idiot grin, a mouth of uneven teeth.

And she’s giggling. Really giggling. There’s something disturbing about the sound, like it doesn’t quite belong to her.  She’s got a hand over her mouth now, and those little stolen schoolgirl giggles keep coming.
And she’s beaming.
“Happiness”, he says, a touch unnecessarily.
She orders, hands over a shaky twenty. He scoops out the Happiness into a little foam icecream bucket. Eventually the giggling stops, and settles into this wistful look, a half smile that tries to resurrect itself but looks worn, tired. She grabs her bucket, what’s left of her change. The stuff’s not cheap. Not that she’s worried – it’s obviously a setup. What a scam.  She’s been hired for a gold coin donation to pop into the shop, sample the merchandise and melt in rapt satisfaction. A bit over the top, really.
Meanwhile, I’m not falling for anything that might be there to be fallen for. I slide down to the end of the counter, pretend I don’t see her walk out. I ignore the tiny little sigh she makes as she steps out onto the sidewalk and into the night. I start to study the other flavours intensely.

Happiness. Joy. Revenge. Revenge? Surely that’s a little dark for gelato. Lust, now that makes sense, a deep chocolate drizzled with some decadent looking sauce, but Revenge?

Revenge is followed by Rage. Depression. Disappointment.

Loss is an icy blue concoction with blueberries on the side. Entanglement is a swirl; some kind of pink berry mix.  Trauma has a wafer spiked into it.

I give the server my considered opinion of the house naming scheme.

“Now this, this… is fucked up.”

His hands go slowly to the sides of his apron, which he tugs gently, deliberately. He walks slowly down the counter, shoes clicking softly against the tiles.

“I mean, who wants to eat Depression? Or Rage?”

He draws level with me. Doesn’t say anything.

“I mean… well, do you actually… sell any of this stuff?”

He looks down at the tubs. There’s one in the far corner. It looks almost black, glistening and icy. It has no adornments; no blueberries, no wafer.

He looks up at me.

“This one is our most popular.”

Oh look. He’s pointing to the Abject Misery. What else would they call their most popular flavour? And suddenly I get it. This is some sort of post-modern faux intellectual product naming concept, something to suck in the uni students, the professionally ironic. Dispense with preconceptions created by labels. Don’t let the flavour be contaminated by your expectations of what lemon sorbet “should” taste like.

Or something.

“One scoop?”

It sounds more like a dare than an offer.  A challenge.

I’m left standing with one small scoop of Abject Misery, served on a tiny plate that makes my hands look huge. I dig my spoon into the black stuff.

All I really wanted was lemon sorbet.

I realise he’s watching me, waiting for a reaction. I suck in a mouthful. It’s not bad, actually. Sweet without being sickly. Nicely balanced flavours.

And then I feel the slightest twinge. My toes curl.

“Oh,” I say.

And suddenly all the blood is draining from my arms, my head, my chest, sucking down into the base of my gut.

I double over.

My face feels wet, and everything is lost. My chest stretches, like my ribcage wants to swing open, let all its useless contents tumble down on to the floor. I drop to my knees. My head rolls backwards, and this sound comes out.

I think I’m wailing.

I’m on my knees, grabbing at my ribs, desperately trying to hold them together, rocking back and forth, choking on something that’s rising up out of my chest, suffocating.

And then, it’s gone. The last of the flavour dissolves, and I’m back to normal.
Except normal isn’t normal. Normal explodes in my fingertips and rushes back up my spine. Normal makes my arms glow, my thighs tingle. Normal is a stomach that no longer twists round in attempts to devour itself.

I start to laugh uncontrollably. Normal feels ridiculously good.

I’m touching my chest, feeling my hands. I’m here. I’m fine. I start to calm down. I’m normal, everything’s normal. Even feeling normal is back to normal. Not rushing, not glowing, just…

He’s still watching me. He doesn’t ask me anything, just raises one eyebrow slightly.

I snatch up the spoon and swallow another mouthful.