By Trevor Nelson
Jack and Haley rode a two-person chairlift toward the mountain’s peak. He held a velvet ring box in his parka pocket.
He brushed her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
She laughed and pointed at a foreshortened couple skiing below. “They look ridiculous.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a trick of perspective.”
“You think people say that about us?”
“Probably.” The unloading zone approached. “Ride’s over.”
Jack fumbled his poles. Disembarking, Haley accidentally shoved him into the seat. It lifted off hauling him toward the end terminal. She skied down the trail picking up speed.
“Wait,” he yelled. She was already gone.
Trevor Nelson lives and writes in Rockford, Illinois. You can find his prose and poetry strewn across the Internet if you look hard enough.