The Gelato Counter – Part 2: The New Flavour

He put the new flavour on the counter on the last Saturday of August.

The tub sat among the others, pale gold with a ribbon of salted caramel, and a handwritten label: Tonight. The queue, curious, tried it. A woman in sunglasses closed her eyes and sighed. A child demanded a second scoop.

"It's selling out," whispered Chiara.

"I noticed."

"You named it after me."

"You named it. I just made it." His voice was rough. "It was the best word anyone gave me."

At closing, they carried two paper cups down to the seafront. The Bay of Naples glowed pink, Vesuvius a violet shadow across the water. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbour. A warm wind tasted of salt.

They sat on the sea wall, shoulder to shoulder, with the last of the tub between them and two spoons.

"Can I ask you something?" said Dario.

"Yes."

"Are you leaving?"

"University starts in September."

"Naples has a university."

She laughed. "Is that a proposal?"

"It's a flavour suggestion." He turned to her, solemn, hopeful. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Chiara. "And if you say stop, you must make me a new flavour every week."

"I would anyway."

He kissed her, gently, cold-spoon sweet, one hand rising to her cheek. She kissed him back with a laugh against his mouth, tasting honey and salt. Gulls wheeled over the water. The sky deepened to indigo.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

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

In October she transferred to the Naples university. Behind the counter hangs a new tub: Always. One word.

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