The room was humid and damp with the fresh afternoon scent of hoagies and mashed out cigarettes. I was sitting on the mattress, trying to fluff up the blanket so it looked somewhat made up. No energy in the city sun. Roommates were flopped on the blue velvet sofas waiting for the inevitable jingle of the ice cream man. No more spare change.
I was trying to be quiet, so I wouldn’t have to face my roommates with cold sweats and groggy irritation. Niccolo popped a cd into the dvd player anyway. It was venezuelan and humming with background insturments and a chorus that seemed to progress louder and louder until we couldn’t ignore it anymore. What was this?
We must have been thinking the same thing because at exactly the same moment we started singing. Quietly to ourselves at first – but then we started in louder. As loud as the music. As loud as we could. We were actually singing and didn’t even care that the rest of the house and maybe the house next door could hear us.
‘Mama I ain’t well.’ Track 4.
I want to go back, but not there. I just want the ice cream truck and the public fountains and my Niccolo.
Today is a very neat day. Everything is in order. Dishes are put away, table tops are dusted and squirted with lemon, sheets are washed. I need some ice cream and a celebration.