Chairlift
By Rachael Helsel
My eyes
followed the rows of heavy trees anchored in the steep hill below, then
glanced at the stranger next to me. The cold wind teased his clothes: worn
jeans, a frayed denim jacket, and fingerless gloves. Dangling below us, my
new parabolic skis glistened condescendingly beside his ancient wooden
ones.
“It’s good to be skiing again,” he remarked, flicking his
greasy hair over his shoulder.
“Again?” I casually inquired.
“Yeah, I was in prison for three years.”
“Oh…”
“Pushed a guy off a Ferris wheel.”
My arm
curled tightly around the pole between us, and he laughed.
“Had you, didn’t I?” |
