[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
Art glowered at the slope. He hated it—hated it for how steep it was, for how quickly it had accelerated that little ball of snow, and for how it would turn his body's potential energy into sheer and destructive speed.
I could go down the way we came.
He looked to his left, to the ridge that still carried the footprints of their ascent. It glimmered in the sunshine, calling him with its promise of a gentle way down.
"Do you need a hand, Art?" Adriana snickered at his side.
"Watch, I'll show you how to do it." Jake took a step into the abyss.
Art expected the man to topple over and to vanish in a blizzard of enraged snow. But he didn't. Rather, he glided down effortlessly, in long, slow-motion strides. Then he halted his steps, slid some more, came to a stop, and looked up at them. "Come on!" He waved a pole.
Before Art could open his mouth, Adriana moved forward. Her steps were too short to imitate Jake's elegance, but she trotted downhill as if it were the most natural thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. Just a stroll.
His heart pounded hard and way too high up in his chest. He took a breath, then he set a foot into the mountain's flank.
The snow yielded under his weight, totally failing to stop him. The only thing Art could do was take a second step, moving his trailing foot forward. He was carried downslope, losing height and gaining speed.
And so it continued, one foot in front of the other, always gliding, hardly braking. The snow rustled and hissed around him, sliding and flowing like a fluid companion joining him for the ride.
"Yeah, this is it," Jake called.
Art didn't turn his head to look at the caller, keeping his eyes on the descent before him.
In a billowing cloud of ice crystals, Jake materialized beside him. "Isn't this great?"
He steered himself away from the man's swinging poles. His pacing was steady now, and so was his speed. Still fast, faster than any of his jogging, but manageable. He even had some degree of control over his path. He was fall-gliding along a zig-zag line, always accompanied by his own, private mini-avalanche.
Art felt awake, alert, alive. And he wore a broad grin.
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Jake was the first one to reach the bottom of the valley, followed by Art. The ground leveled out where they came to a stop. They looked back at Adriana. Approaching fast, she was moving in quick strides—a polar jinn who had unwound her gyrating dance into a straight line. A laughing jinn, almost losing her balance a few steps above them. Then she, and a river of frozen water trailing her, made their landing on the snow-covered road they stood on.
She fell over. "Love this!" The heap of Adriana and snow laughed.
Gipfel wine.
As she got up, Art turned away to take in the new surroundings. The road, its sides marked by red stakes, took a meandering way down along the valley. A snowball's throw away from them, a tiny chapel stood on a small hillock. A fat layer of snow covered its roof, and its single, white-walled spire reflected bright sunlight. It was the only building in sight.
