The Seven O'Clock Rink

November fifteenth. Simone said 'the ice rink opens at seven' and I said yes before she finished the sentence. That was the whole decision. We were still in our work clothes, I had my ankle boots on, which is maybe not the footwear the rink had in mind, but the rental skates fit over them just barely and that felt like a sign.

I have not been on ice skates since I was approximately eleven years old. My body remembered none of it. What it did remember was how to stand very still and look like it was choosing not to move fast, which is a different thing entirely. Simone was two steps ahead inside of thirty seconds, glancing back with that expression she gets when she has already anticipated the exact shape of a situation and finds it gently hilarious. I looked down at my boots on the ice and thought: this is what spontaneity feels like from the inside. Slightly absurd. Completely correct.

First two minutes on the ice. Neither of us had a plan.

We stayed for maybe forty minutes. I got marginally better at not stopping by falling into the barrier. Simone got noticeably better at actual skating, which I chose not to take personally. Afterward we sat on the bench outside the boards and Simone ordered hot chocolate from the little concession window and I did not argue with that decision at all. The rink lights were warm and the sky was that specific kind of dark that fall evenings do where the cold clarifies everything. Someone nearby had a kid who kept doing this tiny determined lap, arms windmilling, not falling, not quite succeeding, not stopping. I thought about the one-block run. Different body, same posture.

Post-ice debrief. Simone ordered hot chocolate. I did not argue.

I would have talked myself out of this on a normal Tuesday. I would have said I'm tired, I need to change first, ankle boots aren't the right shoes. Simone said the rink opens at seven and somehow that was enough information. I am trying to notice more when yes is available before I've already decided no.