Bean
Isabella Moseley
language
(Isabella Moseley, Nov. 4, 2013)
By the time we get to the pond, snow has started to fall, tiny ice ballerinas twirling down onto the ground in fine-spun diamond tutus. They land on the ice of the pond with a whisper of contact, the woods around us illusory and asleep with the frozen dreamlike sound of falling snow. I pull the ice skates out of my bag, white and leather, with silver blades on the bottom like a mirror, reflecting our numb red faces. Leo takes his and pulls them on, and so do I. Then we stand clumsily, holding onto each other laughing and I take the first step out onto the pond. Itβs slippery, like walking on glass in socks and I almost fall over, but Leo catches me. He slides backwards out toward the middle, beckoning me in and I come, my pants wet with melted snow. Leo takes my hands and spins me towards him and we stand for a bit, looking at each other. Then he slips away, his frozen fingers dropping from mine. βDo you skate a lot?β I ask, sitting down and watching him as he glides around the pond like a plastic figurine, impossibly perfect. He takes off his jacket and throws it at me, grinning. βI used to.β I give him the stink eye. βWhat other things are you hiding, bat man?β and we both chuckle, our laughter embracing the tops of the trees in filtered echoes, happiness cloaking the forest in one more layer of wonderland.