The Gelato Counter – Part 1: Pistachio

"One word," said Dario. "For each flavour. No more."

Chiara looked at the forty tubs of gelato gleaming under the glass. It was her first day at the counter of Gelateria Esposito, in the heart of Naples, in an apron two sizes too large. She was twenty-seven, a literature student with a summer to fill. He was thirty-one, lean, serious, with flour-pale forearms and a spoon in each hand.

"Pistachio," he said, and held out a taste.

She closed her eyes. It was green and silky, almost savage. "Sunrise."

He blinked. "Hazelnut."

"Toast."

"Lemon."

"Slap."

He laughed, a short, startled burst, and handed her the apron strings to tie properly. "You can scoop."

The shop was a tiny blue-tiled room, with a queue to the street and a ceiling fan that did nothing. Chiara learned to pack a cone, tap the scoop, never touch the rim. Dario worked in the back, churning, tasting, muttering. His father, the owner, called him a perfectionist; Dario said he was merely correct.

"Can I ask you something?" said Chiara, at closing, mopping the floor.

"Yes."

"Why do you make so many flavours?"

"Because everyone wants something different," said Dario. "I like finding it."

He tucked a spoon of something into her hand: pale gold, with a trace of salt. "Try."

She tasted. It was honey and sea and a hint of lemon peel. "What is it?"

"I haven't named it."

"Then I'll name it. One word: Tonight."

His ears went pink. "Green?" he said, awkwardly, a word from a tourist.

"Green," said Chiara, delighted. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The New Flavour.