ne night, Charles I of England woke from a deep sleep with the feeling that someone was in his bed chambers. This feeling proved untrue; he was alone. He lay in his bed, as people do who wake in the night, and let his mind wander where it wished.
He did not feel sleepy. He was wide awake. He was craving crème ice. Once aware of the craving, it grew. Trying to push it away was no use. In his mind, he damned the French and damned his own chef on top of them. There was something villainous in the dessert, in its lush seduction. Who would have thought that coldness was so appealing, so desirable? Sometimes he thought it was the cold he craved above the sweetness and the creaminess. Simple, harsh coldness that started in your mouth and attacked the back of your head, that sent chills through your throat and over your body. It was a pure sensual pleasure.
There would be no crème ice. It took time to prepare and it was so difficult to store. He would request, and have, crème ice for his dessert—for every day’s meals if he desired—but now, in the middle of the night, he would have none, not if he were king of all the world. Damn the French.
One night, Charlotte woke from a deep sleep with the feeling that someone was in her bedroom. This was mostly untrue; only Montague was there. The cat, sensing her wakefulness, jumped up beside her and began to knead dough on her arm with his sharp little claws.
Charlotte lay in bed, as people do who wake in the night, and let her mind wander. She did not feel sleepy. She was wide awake. She was craving ice cream.
Unaware of the similarities of this experience to those of an English king nearly three hundred years previously, Charlotte lay in bed as the desire for ice cream began rushing over her in growing waves. There was no chef here to make ice cream, and there would be no ice cream for dinner tomorrow. Charlotte looked at her cat, and the cat blinked his eyes with sheer bodily pleasure.
“Get down,” said Charlotte and pushed the cat off of the bed.
During the same night, Melissa Peacock woke.
The night was silent, like every night buried in these orange groves. The night was empty and silent and hot. Melissa’s back was aching, and the pressure of her distended stomach was a constant source of pain. She could feel the child moving around, kicking against the lining of her skin from inside. It was an unnatural feeling, this creature living and tossing inside her own body.
She lay awake, wanting to turn on her side or her stomach but knowing that these were even more uncomfortable than her back. She missed lying on her stomach. She missed feeling cool air breathing over her back, her hair coiled at the nape of her neck, leaving skin exposed to the night breeze. The thought of the cool air sparked a feeling in her gut. It was as if someone had opened her up and inserted a rock into her, a small cold stone—a rock of ice, emanating coldness, sending veins of frozenness through her body, into her arms and legs, into her throat.
A craving grew in her. The visceral feeling of cold in her throat and mouth took on a sweet flavor, a cream-like texture. She wanted ice cream. She needed ice cream.
There was no ice cream.
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