MicroHorror

As the ski lift rises, loudly, I hold my poles apart from my body, like the instructor tells in the lessons, and to relax I turn my head to speak to the man beside me. Over his face, he wears a black ski mask, like the type in my jacket pocket. With a shake from the chill or anxiety, I tell him, “My lady friend recommends the slopes, but I don’t ski, not like her anyway. Truthfully, I don’t wish to ski, but I sit here anyhow.” With a shrug, I announce, “Like any man, though, I will behave uncharacteristically for my lady friends. Whatever they recommend, I will attempt.” He doesn’t respond, but just sits looking into the hazy purple sky, with dusk about to approach. Probably, he already knows how he will handle the hillside. Probably, he takes these taller hills regularly and just has to concentrate.

Looking downward, I swallow loudly, with the trees below me. They tower mightily, and dwarf the tallest structure outside a major skyline. My skis dangle pathetically above their furry branches. It will take about fifteen minutes to travel to the top, and I already feel bile in my throat. Frequently, the lift stops, and shakes, to allow other passengers to find a bench. As it does, it causes the vomit to rise painfully, which lowers my head, but little flies from my mouth. Obviously, the black-hooded male beside me feels equally horrible, because he refuses to acknowledge me at all. Awkwardly, he shifts in his wood bench. His legs lift quickly, like bees sting below his thighs, repeatedly, and he cannot brush them away. Finally, I notice that his pole is pulling his body off the bars. As he pulls the pole between his legs for a more comfortable position for the lengthy ride, he falls off the wood, and plummets frightfully to the bottom, amid the bushy trees that stand as high as monuments to world leaders. My throat suddenly dries, and I cannot swallow anymore, not loudly, not wetly, and not at all.

Finally, atop the hillside, I push my body off the lift, and swish slowly, awkwardly, between skiers with more experience, through the fluffy trees inside which my friend on the ski lift lies. It takes but minutes to find his body, hanging limply from a thick branch like an Old West outlaw from a noose. My body shakes uncontrollably, and I realize that the chilly temperatures have little to do with it.

With night just beginning, I wish for another trip through the shiny hillside, with the lessons expensive and all. Glowing beautifully in the dusk, the snow looks slippery and pumps my blood wildly in my veins. My head pounds, but wonderfully, like my lady friend always says. Finally, after a lengthy time in line for the lift, I sit beside a male in a jacket like mine. With my black ski mask over my face, it occurs to me who sits beside me. He says, “My lady friend recommends the slopes, but I don’t ski, not like her anyway. Truthfully, I don’t wish to ski, but I sit here anyhow.” Then he shrugs lamely, while he speaks about his lady friends, until he realizes I have little interest anymore. With my poles below my legs while I sit, unlike how the instructor teaches, I will not enjoy the ride. Maybe, I will not reach the pinnacle of the slope at all. At least, I will not reach it in the same manner.