Siracusa by Delia Ephron Page A

cocktail?” said Taylor.
    News to me. I remembered cantaloupe.
    Michael smiled, delighted with his memories. “Del Monte in those miniature cans. But after that, after the first success, I blocked. I expected writing to come easily. I waited for the magic, for pixie dust, for the great god inspiration. Ha. Nothing. After months of feeling like a fraud.” There are words that Michael gives living, breathing life to. His voice is rich, his storytelling so gifted that some of his words arrive with legs and walk around the room. “Fraud—” He christened that one, sat it down to dinner, and poured it some wine. He slid his arm along the back of Snow’s chair and leaned toward her to deliver his wisdom. “Writing is sheer willpower. Discipline. That’s what made me a writer.”
    I laughed.
    “What?” he said.
    “Nothing,” I said, disbelief evident.
    The guy was a stoner. He couldn’t write without weed. (Look, it’s no big deal. I read a book,
Daily Rituals
, that documented the routines of famous creatives of all sorts. Auden took amphetamines daily. Thomas Wolfe fondled himself. Everyone relied on something.)
    “With writing, first comes habit, then comes love,” said Michael. “With marriage, it’s the opposite. First love, then habit.”
    It was a slap. I’d mocked him. He’s sensitive to disloyalty.“Habit is my favorite thing about marriage. What about you?” I asked Taylor.
    “Our marriage works because—” She came around the table and planted a kiss on Snow’s forehead and then fussed with her bangs, which she’d disturbed.
    Finn set down his wine and waited. I knew he was wondering, genuinely wondering why in the world she thought their marriage worked. “Because we’re parents,” said Taylor. “Because we both know this beautiful girl comes first.”
    This is something she’s selling to Finn. I remember thinking that. The car’s bought. It’s nearly eleven, and she’s still delivering the sales pitch.
    “Marriage is like nicotine,” said Finn. “Nicotine is the most addictive drug in the world because it’s an upper and a downer.”
    “Why is marriage a downer?” said Taylor.
    “I’m kidding,” said Finn.
    “No, he’s not, he’s backing off,” said Michael.
    “Shut the fuck up,” said Finn in a friendly sort of way.
    “It’s a downer because of habit. That’s why we’re in Italy.” I raised my glass. “Here’s to the unexpected.”
    Did I clink with Snow? Michael must have, but the odd thing was, she had this way of being present and not, as if she’d perfected the art of invisibility. As I said, and maybe it doesn’t sound so hateful now, in the beginning she was wallpaper.
    In the gelato place, that’s where I left us, didn’t I? With Michael outside fortifying himself. I knew I should be with him, but Finn had fallen in love with
stracciatella
, the word not the flavor.
    “Stracciatella.”
Finn spit it like a swear word.
“Stracciatella
,”
he purred as if it were an endearment.
“Stracciatella
,
”
he whispered, the code in a spy film.
“Stracciatella.”
He brushed my shoulder to knock the pesky thing off, whatever it was, dust, a very small Italian bug.
I will be so dumb, you cannot resist me.
    Snow turned up, sliding between us without touching.
    “Stracciatella.”
He greeted her with great enthusiasm as if she had just returned from a long voyage—Carthage, perhaps—and dabbed a bit of gelato on her nose.
    She swiped it off with the back of her hand. “Mom and Michael want to leave.” Bowing her head, she spoke into Finn’s chest, muffling her words.
    “See you later, Finn.” I took Snow’s hand. She did not return my grip, nor did she resist. “Let’s catch up with Michael.”
    He was ambling in the direction of the Trevi Fountain, weaving a bit. Thanks to the wine, his body had gone slightly beyond the reach of his mind. “We’re catching Michael,” I told Taylor too, who was looking past me to Finn, her face pinched in