We’d come to the conclusion that making love was like ice cream. We liked it as much as ever. But that didn’t mean we wanted it all the time.
There was so much rushing around—kids’ activities, work, keeping up with friends. Often we wanted no more than to snuggle with cocoa in front of the television.
Shiralee came to stay. She had a new partner and she’d discovered herself as a lover. It was understandable, I guess. Silas had been an inconsiderate slob. Everyone knew it. It just took Shiralee a lot longer to cotton on. Now, when the rest of us were slowing down, she was making up for lost time. Oh boy was she making up for it. She’d waited until she was forty-three for her first orgasm and the world needed to know about it (and all the others since).
‘Look, it’s great and all,’ said Lauren. ‘But can’t we have one dinner without talking about your sex life?’
‘Oh,’ said Shiralee, genuinely surprised. ‘Oh. Sorry. So what’ll we talk about?’
‘Ice cream,’ I said.
Lauren shot me a quizzical look.
‘Remember when we backpacked through Europe. God we had sooo much ice cream.’
‘Really?’ said Shiralee. ‘I’d never have thought of you two as the ice cream kind.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Lauren, smiling. ‘Remember Venice?’
2011-Richard Holt / small stories about love (smallstoriesaboutlove.wordpress.com)