She swirls a finger in the whipped cream topping of her hot mocha coffee, waiting for the chocolate to settle at the bottom, the way she likes it best. Now and then, her gaze flickers toward the gentleman who sits facing her at the rustic wooden table catty-corner to hers. He sips a beverage as well——a cold one, it seems, from the ice she hears clacking inside it——and he stretches two long, ski-booted legs as he slumps with evident exhaustion from the slopes.

 

She still swirls her finger, being ever so careful not to dip it into the searing liquid below that waits to penetrate the surface like lava. Biding her time for it to cool, she steals a glance at the skier. But his eyes are fixated on the peak behind her, visible through the café window she has turned her back on with indifference. She can see his eyes calculating, remembering. On closer inspection, it doesn’t look as though he’s actually gone up there yet this morning; he’s fully suited up, but she sees no snow melting on his boots, no sweat matting down his hair, no sun or wind flushing his cheeks. Curious now, she slowly swivels her head to the window.

 

She hasn’t really looked at the mountains before, not properly. Having grown up among them, they’ve faded into the background for her, and she’s never once attempted skiing. She is a grounded gal of the rocky earth, of the dirt and stone that cakes her hiking boots but not of the candy-capped altitude that outruns the tree line to kiss the clouds. She moves at the speed of her own two feet and has never sought the rush of air against her face from moving at the speed of snow. Truth be told, she is afraid. And perhaps she has reason to be.

 

“That mountain is actually a volcano,” the skier says behind her head, startling her to look back around at him.

 

“I know that,” she replies, trying to affect a composed coolness. She likes to play the Ice Queen.

 

“Dormant. Nothing to be afraid of.”

 

She affects a rigid posture as her body crystallizes from her toes to her face, freezing it in a smirk. “Then why do you seem to be?”

 

“Do I?”

 

“You’re still down here, aren’t you, after everyone else has gone to the lifts?”

 

“So are you, for that matter.”

 

“Yes, but I don’t ski.”

 

The man’s gaze drops to his cup, and he presses his lips together as he twists it left and right atop the table surface. She hears the ice cubes collide with less force; they must be melting. He lifts the cup to take another sip, but not without looking up once again at the peak. “Truth be told, neither do I. Not anymore.”

 

She laughs at his jest even though she doesn’t understand the punch line. She still doesn’t understand when he doesn’t also smile and something not sun nor wind flushes his cheeks. Still swirling her finger in the whipped cream, without thinking she dips it into her coffee, and the molten drink bleeds varying shades of brown into the white fluff. She finds it is not so hot to the touch after all as she looks back at the faux skier.

 

He twists his drink again, which now makes no sound at all. Beads of sweat form at his brow, but she cannot discern whether it’s anger or embarrassment that smolders in his eyes. Looking at him in his unused ski apparel, she can almost feel her thawing heart slip around in a puddle welling in her chest. Standing, she takes her coffee and walks to his table; once there, she outstretches her hand to shake his.

 

As the man accepts it, she feels his palm is hot against her cold one, and she wants to hold on long enough to meet his temperature. She exhales and slackens her composure as he straightens and puffs up his chest. The blush and glisten have evaporated from his face, and he looks more cool and confident as he invites her to take the seat next to him. She flashes him a warm smile as she does so, and together they stare at the brown foothills and white-peaked volcano.

 

“So,” she says to him, “I’ll tell you my story if you’ll tell me yours.”