The Solitary Skater

 

He knows she’s watching him this morning as he skates all by himself in Delaware. He figures she had to first hand-warm a bedroom window pane to get the outside frost to vanish, and he knows she’s looking at him now and having coffee from a tumbler someone else brought back from St. Thomas over a thousand days ago. The ice skater keeps holding on to his sharp image of her, at the cost of missing the screams of cranes killing one another a mere mile to his west, and the redness of this year’s marsh grass, grown high and well in all directions. He questions out loud just how long she’ll keep watching him, and when might the coffee or something else make her have to leave and go potty. He questions whether or not in all that’s out here going past him as he skates with speed and flourish, whether or not in all of this, there isn’t someone kind of like her in-waiting, and wouldn’t she too find herself introspectively imprisoned if the day ever came when, having all the world to choose from, she drew near faraway places with faraway names, like Chicoutimi or Segbwema.

 

* * *

 

William C. Blome is a writer of short fiction and poetry. He lives in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Oyez Review, Orion headless, Salted Feathers, and The California Quarterly.

Share →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>