I‘m running late today since I’ve been away, but here is this week’s New Yorker story: David Gilbert’s “Cicadia.” I have not had a chance to read a word, but I’ve enjoyed Gilbert’s stories in the past. Here is the start!
There was once a beginning and it involved sprinklers and green grass, but that happened a long time ago. Right now it’s Saturday night, the night of the big night, in the eternal return of suburban Cincinnati, summer of 1986. The neighborhood in question could be Indian Hill. Or Oakley. Or Stetson Square. Though in reality it’s Hyde Park that the boys are driving through, fresh from their stop at Graeter’s Ice Cream, which might elicit a few nods from the locals in the know—Graeter’s and its black-raspberry chocolate chip, the flavor of choice for all three boys. They lick their cones in almost comedic unison. Like they’re ten again. Speed three-fourths of pleasure. Feeling the cold against the humid air, the sweet smooth taste on their tongues, the tart undertones, the bits of chocolate like smaller deeper holes, like memories within memories. No matter how familiar, this moment is still a delight. Best friends cruising together. On the cusp of senior year. The sky water-colored in dark blues and grays and blacks, the moon eyeballing them through the clouds.
I hope to get some of my thoughts in the comments below when I have a chance to read the story. No need to wait for me, of course! Feel free to share your thoughts below.