Jane-Rebecca Cannarella Fighting Over the Best Flavor in Neapolitan Ice Cream
When I was younger I’d spend entire days kissing a troubled boy. We’d sit in his cramped bedroom, in between piles of graying laundry, and shoot billows of white smoke into each other’s mouths – clouds collecting around our heads. I’d trace the shape of his lips and poke the groove between his nose and mouth. I think it’s called a philtrum. We’d clink spoons that made caverns in Neapolitan ice cream, listening to Patti Smith so loudly our back teeth rattled. I wish I could remember his name – he ended up spending a lot of time kissing other girls, so eventually space and clouds of smoke erased him. But yesterday I heard Easter and could feel icy strawberries in the corners of my mouth where our lips used to meet.