Trixie scowled up at the sun that was reflecting bright off the snowy mountain and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. She was simultaneously too warm in her layers and layers of long underwear and the pink snow suit she'd purchased for this trip specifically, and freezing cold where the wind bit at her exposed cheeks and nose over the collar of her jacket.
Her friends had long since abandoned her for the black diamond slopes, insisting that Trixie would be joining them in no time and ignoring her repeated, insistent pleas that she had never been skiing in her life, and that she didn't even know where to start.
Some friends. Trixie huffed, hefting the skis and the little poles over her shoulder and trudging through the snow on her clunky, awkward ski boots, already regretting this whole thing. When Pearl had suggested a girls' trip in Aspen, Trixie had actually been excited, visions of lounging around the fire with a hot toddy in a very fashionable fur ensemble dancing in her head.
The reality was, unfortunately, not quite as glamorous as Trixie had pictured. While the scenery was undoubtedly gorgeous, the sweeping mountains and gorgeous vistas seeming to go on for miles and miles under the clear blue sky, the snow under Trixie's feet was slushy and dirty, and she was already sweating as she lugged her ski gear along.
She was sure, too, that her hair, which had been carefully blow dried into soft, bouncy curls, was now matted to her head under the pale pink helmet that she had bought special, and she heaved a great, very put-upon sort of sigh.
At least they had decorated for Christmas, she noted, observing the garlands and twinkling lights and big red bows that seemed to adorn every possible surface. It was a week away, and Trixie still had no plans, being due to fly back to LA on the 23rd. She supposed she'd do what she did every year, and spend the day alone in her apartment, making her way through an entire bottle of Chardonnay, eating Chinese food, and watching It's A Wonderful Life until she fell asleep on the couch at three in the afternoon.
Trixie shaded her eyes from the sun, squinting up ahead of her at the main thoroughfare where crowds of skiers and snowboarders of all ages were being spat out from their respective slopes, laughing and talking as they made their way over to the line for the ski lifts.
She spotted a sign that said "Beginner Ski Lessons" with an arrow pointing to where Trixie was presumably supposed to be, and began to plod through the snow, her stupid, clunky ski boots stomping through the slush. The woman in the rental shop had taken pity on her when she'd seen her struggling to get the stupid things on, and had come over to help Trixie lace them up tightly and fasten the stupid fiddly little plastic clasp at the top, and Trixie had felt like such an incompetent idiot she had almost walked out right there and then. It was already embarrassing enough to be a twenty-eight year old human being who hadn't even the first clue about skiing when most of her friend group had been going on winter Aspen trips with their loaded families since they could walk. Having to sit there while someone literally tied her shoes for her too was just adding insult to injury.
The only thing keeping her to her commitments was the fact that she had already paid in full for the ski rental and the lesson, and both payments were nonrefundable. She had signed up for the first available instructor on the website, eyes pausing over the last name, which was the only name available, no first name in sight. It had been something incredibly long and complicated and vaguely Russian-looking, and Trixie couldn't help but picture a stern-looking, uptight, no-nonsense old Russian woman telling her that she was doing everything wrong. In Soviet Russia, the mountain skis down you.
Trixie found an orange traffic cone with a little sign taped to it that read in neat, blocky handwriting, "10AM lesson with Katya meets here!" She didn't see anyone else that looked like they were waiting for the lesson, and she looked down at her watch, pulling her little pink winter glove aside so she could see the face of it. It was five minutes to ten, and she set down her skis and poles, leaning one end on the packed snow and letting the other end rest against her shoulder.
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turn the white snow red as strawberries - trixya
Fanfiction"Trixie, who didn't know jack shit about skiing, had to admit even she was impressed by the flagrant display of skill as the figure arrowed through the snow, leaving the rest of the skiers in the dust. They were getting closer and closer, and just a...
