Cone of Silence

She stares at the chalkboard on the sidewalk, seemingly unable to make up her mind, playing with the top button of her blouse, contemplating the flavor possibilities, savoring the moment before she gets to order from the large dark muscular man on the other side of the window.

It is an extremely hot night and she has chosen, and this is very unusual for her, to forego a bra. So as she plays with the button the man behind the window serving ice cream is seeing flashes of her clear pale skin and as she sweats, the rest of her breasts, and especially her nipples, which are gradually becoming more and more visible through her increasingly soaked blouse.

The line behind her grows longer with people needing relief from the heat, families with children, couples young and old, bored and lonely singles, all delayed in their simple pleasures by her indecision and button fiddling.

Finally she orders. Chocolate of course. If she is going to be symbolic she is going to go all the way. He brings her the cone, leaning a little further out the window than is truly necessary, even given his very tallness, her very shortness, and the added height differential between the sidewalk and the raised floor inside the window.

She has him now.

He is still leaning out the window, his hand on the cone, her hand on his hand to take it, the cone in a state of transference between him and her when she leans forward to take her first long luxurious lick of dark rich chocolate ice cream.

She straightens up from the lick as if to go, but he does not let go of the cone and she does not let go of his hand. The ice cream is already beginning to melt over both their hands, and as the first lick was big and sloppy there is ice cream on her mouth, running down and off her chin.

She stares into his eyes. He stares back, holding her gaze, holding the cone, not letting go for dear life. She leans forward again, licks, and licks again, the ice cream dribbling from the cone to their hands, her ample sweat-glistened, now ice-cream-stained cleavage entirely, intentionally revealed to him.

The people in line behind her are restless, but those who can see, couples young and old, singles no longer bored, even the families with children stand transfixed, eroticized, impatient for their ice cream, but unwilling to break the spell, not knowing what to say to this complete stranger so completely engaged in a very private but incredibly public act of self-slutification.

I stand beside her, equally transfixed, equally eroticized, equally impatient, and so much more. I am her husband, and I do not know what to say either.

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