Sean Miller's Stories

by Max Hortensen

...

Sharon and I come back from brunch at one thirty on Saturday afternoon. She had bacon, eggs, croissants, milk, orange juice and tons of fruit. I had a cheese, mushroom, ham, bacon and green and red pepper omelet. The thing was so big that I needed four glasses of orange juice to wash it down. We’re laying on top of each other in bed looking out the window. Very few light flurries are coming down. It’s a warm afternoon though, just three below. We smile at each other.

We get up and take a trip to the front desk. Skis are just $3 an hour. We both rent a pair and go sit in the lounge area to lace up. When we’re ready, there’s a door at the back of the lobby. Sharon and I exit this door. We let our skis hit the snow and do the work. We proceed from the door to the start of the actual skiing area slowly.

--That’s it, darling, you’re doing it.

In ten minutes Sharon and I are down in the resort’s main skiing slopes. As with the usual load of families, there’s a herd of lovers, older teenagers and people in their mid-twenties headed down the slopes. Of course the resort receives a double bonus this week, with Valentine’s Day coinciding with university Reading Week.

Sharon uses the poles to pull herself through the snow. A lovely shade of blush appears on her cheeks. She’s all cozy in her toque, scarf, warm winter jacket and long johns. Before I get my head off from pushing off, she’s five feet ahead of me.

--Do you ski?

--Sandra, Shonna, Julie and I went for the first time last January. Had such a great time that we made it a once a week ritual.

--It would be nice to hang with Julie more. Always was at Danny’s with us last term on Monday nights. Haven’t seen her much this term. Does she T.A?

--She doesn’t T.A. She’s probably the most motivated of all of us. I think she wants to go to the United States to be a media critic.

Sharon and I keep skiing down the hill. Then we turn right and continue skiing for fifty feet. Then we enter the top of another hill. Sharon is quick to race down it. Then we turn left and continue for another fifty feet. We’ve arrived at the top of the last hill of the course. She braces.

--Race you to the bottom!

I wildly push on the poles to chase Sharon down the hill. She sees me working hard. She starts to laugh. This is the stall I need. I feel the wind blow stronger. I sail down the hill to Sharon’s side. Those brown eyes are sparkling and lighting up the sky. I wrap my arms around her and start kissing her lips. I suggest that we go back to the chalet for some fun. Oh, fuck you English 505. Sharon Woodhouse is mine and ain’t none of you getting near her.

...

© seanmillersstories 2007. all rights reserved.