My day at the rink

There is a dead bug on the Ice. I skate over it, my blades crushing its frozen shell. The cricket does not fight back. The cricket does not chirp.

But why would it?

The cricket is dead. I skate over to my coach, the words on my lips to tell her about the cricket. But our eyes never meet, so the words die on my lips. I turn away, wanting to tell someone. Wanting to speak to someone.

But I am surrounded by strangers.

There are tracings in the ice. Each loop and whirl made from the movement of my blades. I don't travel around the world but rather stay in one spot.

I look down at my etchings, watching them overlap. Overlap until they are not one line but many. I cast my eyes out, wanting to show someone my perfect spin.

But I am surrounded by strangers.

It is 6:59 in the morning. My eyes are glued to the clock that hangs from the ceiling. I stare, counting the seconds till seven.

I know I need to move or my coach will yell at me, but still I stare. I stare at the clock until I am not surrounded by strangers.

Until I have a friend.

There is a nine-year-old on the ice- wait, no, ten- her birthday is on August 31st. She skates over to me as I look up at the clock. Her arms wrap around me, gluing me in place on the slick ice.

I wrap my arms around her as she tells me about school, about her friends. We skate together, fast laps around the rink. We skate until our breaths are harsh and our bodies warm.

There is a ten-year-old on the ice. She tells me about a crushed cricket and a perfect spin. There is a ten-year-old on the ice, and she is my friend. There is a ten-year-old on the ice; she leaves in an hour. So I skate with her until she goes, thankful for every second I am not surrounded by strangers.