It’s two-thirty. She’ll be here any time now. I wish they’d answer this freakin’ bell, only I don’t want her to see me; not like this.
Christ, she walked right past me: the fat one with the lizard tattoo on her neck. Here she comes again.
Shit, that’s cold. Bitch.
Lucy’s hands are warm, like custard, soothing and supple. Every touch is a caress, and the smell of her, roses in sunshine. I can smell her but she isn’t even here yet. It takes my mind off the rest of my life.
Life! Who are you kidding?
Hey, watch it! You’re pissing me off now, Lizard-bitch. That’s it, leave the job half-done. She’s got breath like a sewer rat.
It burns like grit; drives me crazy. I wish I could get to it. Wish I could…walk out of this hell-hole. What I’d give to see blue sky, grey sky; any sky. Anything but white: white ceiling, white lights, white walls…white-out.
Click. I’m back. I remember. Click. White. Thunder. Then black, only it wasn’t black, it was white, but dark, heavy, pressing out the light. White blindness, white deafness, white blanket: ice-cold, cutting out the air, warmth, thought, feeling. And me there, rolled up in the middle, like some freakin’ frankfurter.
Would’ve been a neat place to end it; can’t think of anywhere better. I’ve always loved that summit; the way it claws at the sky, spiky-defiant. They’d have found me in the Spring; thawed out, leathered in the sun, if the eagles hadn’t picked me clean.
Who’s that? Can’t see your face, Honey. You can come closer Baby, I don’t bite. Bite? Bite me.
Soup? Yeah whatever, it’s all the same to me. Same like yesterday and all the other yesterdays…soup through a straw, my favourite.
Is she here yet? She wasn’t here yesterday, or the other day, whatever day. Please, God let her be here today, every day, with her squeaky left shoe and her C cups, and her Scottish accent. And her hair, chestnut and golden, pouring down her shoulders like an…
Like a river. She’s a doll. She’s got skin like rose petals. I bet she’s got guys crawling all over her. Good-looking guys: she can afford to be choosy.
Like that Aussie dude with the blue eyes. The eyes that were all over her, all over where they had no business to be. He fancies himself, but hey, who wouldn’t? Good-looking guy. Great shape. Great job. I caught the curl of her hip and the flick of her mascara. I haven’t forgotten the game; or the aim. I just wish I could.
Good on him. I wish him luck. I wish him my share.
He’s skied Talon Ridge, but he’s never tried boarding; can you believe it? Man, I told him, that baby takes you places you never imagine. How can I explain? It’s like flying; hell, is it flying? You’re up there, up with the angels on top of the world and you’re flying. And it’s pure. Pure clear air, slices through you like a blade, and the snow; it’s the best. Clean virgin powder, sprays like surf, but so cold your face burns. It’s as good as it gets.
I told him about it; that last day. It was golden. We reached the top of the mountain just after dawn. You should have been there. It was waiting for us, holding its breath like a bride in a veil. Looked like someone had thrown rose petals, the way the light hit the snow. It was the best I’ve ever seen it. We stayed a while, breathing it in; felt like maybe we shouldn’t spoil it. But man, it was so cold. I had the taste of it; I was bursting to get out there.
Then we were flying. We dipped down the North Ridge and out along the glacier. I love the colours when the light hits it sweet. We were skimming through this tunnel of rainbows, creaming through the powder. I just can’t tell you. It was magical.
We followed the gully round, heading for that bowl, facing south, just below the rock face. I felt it give, but there wasn’t much to do, just get the hell out of there. We’d had a few warm days, but I thought the base would hold.
We stopped at the edge, decided which way next. But man, it was smooth; deep and smooth and velvet. So we went for it. We hammered it. I’ve never known powder like it. I never will again.
All I could see was light through the powder, flying in my face like diamonds. I couldn’t breathe. It was waist high, but every muscle was burning, pounding. I never felt so alive. We were shrieking, screaming like girls, for the hell of it. It was damn near perfect.
Then it all went white. I heard a crack as I was falling; over, over, God knows which way. Then I heard the boom rolling over, over like thunder, then click: darkness.
They found me first; I wasn’t deep. My face was still next to the rock I split my neck on. It saved my life, that rock, stuck in a pocket of air. I guess I could be grateful.
They found Joey two weeks later, in a crevasse: said he looked like he was sleeping, not a mark on him. Joey always got lucky.
I can smell roses. Here she is at last, stretching and teasing my useless limbs. It’s pointless but hey, who’s complaining? She says I’m making progress: a twitch here, a jerk there, whatever makes her happy, but they’re not the kind of moves I had in mind.