I don’t like skiing. That’s the thing. I have a pathological fear of broken bones. When he invited me, I said no. I said, “I have a pathological fear of broken bones.” He laughed and told me, “That doesn’t exist.” But it does. I can still hear the splintering crack of a schoolmate’s leg breaking when she fell from the top of the climbing rope in PE.
He persuaded me. He always persuades me. Now here I am, sleeping in a chalet by night, wearing salopettes by day. Resolutely not skiing.
My lack of interest in his favourite winter pastime has encouraged new friendships. In the chalet next to ours are two women. Dorothy, one of them is called. We socialise almost every night, but I can’t recall the name of Dorothy’s friend. She’s the quiet type. Dorothy is louder.
She doesn’t say much, the friend. She watches. Her face is mostly eyes, with a wry little mouth that doesn’t speak. I catch her staring sometimes. At me. At him. Mostly him. We have nothing in common.
He’s out on a double black diamond today. Even Dorothy and her friend have gone.
Or perhaps only Dorothy’s friend went with him.
Written in response to a Past Postcards tweet