By F.L. Page
The skaters are split in two: the grounded against the soaring—like him.
I’m clumsy on ice.
He spins on delicate, flashing blades, tall and lithe, arms tucked into his chest. Gold curls held down by the brim of his newsboy cap. A blue vest, long pants encasing longer legs. A face that’s tragically beautiful.
He reminds me of an orphan from a story I read once, a character made flesh.
Over the din of voices, I can’t hear his skates touch down. I imagine it soft, like windchimes. A note there and then gone.
He catches me watching, and smiles.
Lovely writing!
Such beautiful imagery! I really enjoyed this piece!