Love Begins in Winter by Simon van Booy

took a sticker from his pocket and set it on the ground with the glossy cards of naked women that litter the sidewalks of Las Vegas.
    A limousine stopped at a light. It was a wedding. The women inside were smoking and singing along to country music. The bride was young. She looked at Molly and screamed.
    The boy removed his sandals and set them next to his mother’s shoes, which had been shed long ago.
    Molly’s pocketbook with all her money was in Jed’s truck.
    â€œI’ll keep control of the money,” Jed had said.
    The drive from Texas took four days. The boy kept throwing up because Jed smoked with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.
    At night they all slept in the back on a mattress. The nights were cool. The sky glowed purple at dawn—then gold poured across the sky as the day was forged.
    Molly’s son was too afraid to ask his mother for the restroom. The thought of entering the casino made him feel nauseated. An hour or so later his underpants had mostly dried and the stinging upon the skin of his legs had given way to a slight tingling.
    Then somebody approached him.
    A man stood and watched the boy for some time; then he went away.
    Then the man returned with something in his hand.
    The boy felt a cold dish pushed against his bare thigh.
    Then he noticed a figure standing over him.
    â€œ Mangia ,” the man said softly, and pointed to the white, creamy square of dessert in the dish.
    The man was wearing black pants with a soft red sash for a belt. His shirt was heavy and long-sleeved, with black and white horizontal stripes.
    â€œTiramisu,” the man said earnestly. “From the Venetian Hotel and Casino, a few streets from here—I just got it for you.”
    The boy squinted and turned to his mother. Molly eyed the stranger suspiciously through her swollen eyes.
    â€œDon’t worry, Mama,” the stranger said to Molly. He pointed to himself with both hands. “ Amico —friend.”
    Molly had pretty eyes. She had made many “friends” in her life that she would sooner forget.
    â€œNo thanks,” she replied in a voice loud enough for passersby to overhear. Her voice was cracked with thirst and fatigue.
    â€œMommy—can I eat this?” her son said, and dipped his finger in the cream. “I think it’s good.”
    Molly held the dish in her hand, inspected the contents, and then put the dish back on the wall. “Eat it and thank the man.”
    The man sat on the wall a few yards from them and lit a thin cigar. It smelled very sweet. He began to whistle. When the boy had finished the dessert, he slid over to the stranger and set the bowl down gently.
    â€œI really like it,” he said.
    â€œWe call it tiramisu. It means ‘pick me up’ in Italian.”
    Then the man leaned down to the boy’s ear. His breath smelled of cigars.
    â€œThere’s liquor in it too.” He winked.
    The boy peered down at the empty bowl. In its center were the colors of Las Vegas, held fast in a tiny pool of melted cream.
    â€œWhy do you speak like that?” the boy asked.
    â€œMy accent?” the man said.
    The boy nodded despite never having heard the word “accent” before.
    â€œI’m a gondolier—and the accent is from Italy.”
    â€œA gon. . .”
    â€œGondolier, sì .”
    â€œA goboleer?”
    â€œ Sì —do you know what that is?”
    â€œGoddamn it!” his mother snapped without looking up. “Stop bothering the man.”
    â€œBut Mom, he’s nice.”
    â€œThey’re all nice at the beginning,” she said.
    The man winked at the boy and then stood up. He took three small oranges from his pocket.
    â€œThey were all nice at the beginning, Mama—but could they all juggle at the beginning?” the man said.
    The little boy watched the balls rise and fall. He sensed the weight of each orange in his own small hands.
    â€œThe magic is