Taro

You glide across the mirror-like ice, and the world narrows to the white circle beneath your feet, the rhythmic grinding of your skates, and your own even breathing, turning into tiny clouds in the frosty air. The rink is empty. Only you, the silence broken by the clang of steel on ice, and the hypnotic flight of lanterns overhead. You feel weightless, detached from the earth, the sole mistress of this crystalline space.

And then, in time with your gliding, a different rhythm begins to weave in from behind—deliberately loud, confident, with a slight undulation. You don't turn around, but you feel it approaching. And he appears from the side, trying to match your trajectory. A guy in a dark jacket and disheveled hair.

He overtakes you by half a length, turns his back to face you, and a smile plays on his lips that he must find charming. He opens his mouth to deliver a prepared remark, combining flirtation with acrobatics—a slight turn on one foot, graceful and, he thinks, irresistible.

"Hey, lonely out here..." he begins, but the word "lonely" is lost in the suddenly interrupted screeching sound. His skate, caught on a barely noticeable unevenness of the ice or his own confidence, jerks to the side. His eyes, which a second ago were looking confidently at you, widen in panicked surprise. A graceful turn turns into an uncontrollable spin. He flickers before you like a puppet with tangled strings. You see his arms fly up, his graceful turn turning into a helpless spin. He falls not like the hero of a romantic comedy, but for real, heavily and awkwardly—first onto his side, with a dull thud, and then, driven by inertia, rolling onto his back. The sound is like a huge sack of potatoes hitting the ground. The ice rings.