She never lands her double axel, but she looks oh so heavenly in sequins. You could never mention this to her because she'd find another partner to catch her. After practice, a furtive angle cast off your skate blade lets you see up her feathered skirt again. You nervously fumble with your laces when she inquires why your boot is so slow to be shed.
You dropped her earlier today. She spilled like petty change. And all because you thought she wouldn't notice. Oh, but she definitely noticed your hand. You both know right hand goes on the hip. She can barely land an axel as it is, forget off a half-handed throw. You gambled her grace against your lechery.
Instantaneous, maybe. But inexcusably deliberate. The hand never goes there. Then the audacity to attempt the throw with the chaste hand, as to boast your depravity had no technical impact. She pirouetted in tight spirals, each revolution telegraphing her aghast reaction: You. Are. A. Filthy. Filthy. Man.
Her ankle bent all wrong. Her taut scowl dissipated as her body crumpled like snipped marionette. Her face did not merely brush the ice like you think. You gave her a concussion. A concussion. That's why those evasive eyes that must lust for you grew dim. That's why those supple lips her husband pecks held tight. That's why she never once mentioned where your hand was that day. She was sprawled out on the floor, all heavenly in sequins. You looked up her feathered skirt again.
You help her off the rink. She asks to call her husband. After glib attempts to convince her you are he, you reconcile yourself that she's sadly free of amnesia. You insist she rest and recuperate, then shamelessly schedule to meet the next week -- same time, same day, same routine.
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