Patrizia Vaniglia lived in a small town in southern Italy with her husband, a child sweetheart, and two youngish children. For many years she had practiced as a psychologist and psychotherapist.
One day, a patient came to her with a strange question.
“Do you like ice cream?”
“Of course,” said Patrizia, feeling a pang of guilt coming on for her waist line. “I love it. Who doesn’t?”
Discussing where to go to get it, they both agreed the best ice cream parlour in the area was Bar Roma in Monopoli.
“Of course,” said her patient. “There is bar Las Vegas in Torre A Mare.”
“I haven’t been there for ages,” said Patrizia.
“I sometimes see the owner driving a BMW.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think he doesn’t care about ice cream anymore. He’s made a packet.”
Patrizia’s patient went quiet for a moment.
“For a while I’ve had this dream on my mind,” she went on. “In the dream I meet this man on the beach. I’ve never met him before. I suppose I am attracted to him. He fulfills all the requirements of a good-looking man. He’s wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts. He’s quite tall with stubble for a beard. We are sitting on sun beds, and I have an ice cream in my hand. Instead of eating the ice-cream, however, I put the ice cream down the front of his Bermuda shorts.”
“That’s funny,” said Patrizia.
“It is indeed.”
“What happens then?”
“Nothing. I wake up.”
“It’s a recurring dream.”
“Yes,” said her patient.
“And the man does enjoy it?”
“I don’t think he minds.”
“And you? Do you mind?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t mind. Just the fact I can’t get it out of my mind. What do you think it means?”
Patrizia, like the responsible practitioner she was, resisted giving an answer. “Well, it’s not important what I think,” she said. “What do you think?”
Her patient sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “All I know is I would like to find the man in the Bermuda shorts.”