they dance.

the ice is vast and the ice is infinitesimal, larger than the sky and the seas yet somehow ever-shrinking, microscopic to the point it becomes hilarious. that is to be expected around this time of the year, though, because it is indeed the depthless pit of winter and the previously rippling lake has frozen itself over at the first descend of arctic chills. the lake is fragile, you think quietly, your feet hesitating on a pair of loose skates. the lake is eager, forgiving. you stand, broody and feather-light; your blades are blunted and your strings always come undone after mere minutes, but it hardly matters now, when your safety is not the concern nor the goal. you are not here to skate anyway.

ever the curious spectator, you've come to watch.

she's twirling into a sweet little curve, her hair afloat in sultry winds and fluttering motions. belatedly, you realise she is easing into a jump. salchow, axel, double, triple, anything; you don't watch nearly enough figure skating to know just by a glance. you don't need to know her techniques to appreciate the sight of her, though, the arch of her spine and the straight of her legs, ruddy wind-bitten cheeks and throaty giggles; the phantom tiara crowning her chocolate auburn locks; a queen of the frost.

your vision tunnelled in, tight, airless, but regardless you see: the man of her dream, the soulmate of her forevermore, the knight in shining armour. no, not merely a knight—perhaps a prince charming shall be more precise. the traces of his youth are clear in his glacial eyes and the streaks of brown swimming in his silver; he stands tall and strong and sturdy and even when he doesn't wield a sword, never shoot an arrow, he causes teenage infatuation and broken hearts easily enough. you think she used to be one of those adolescents whose heart sang at the sight of him, in a movie or on the cover of some magazines, but she never admitted it. he swipes in smoothly, his knees a teeny tad stiff from the onset of ageing and old injuries but otherwise strong, unyielding, his navy skates shimmering with minuscule ice chips and flaxen sunrise. a flourish of coats, a dip, a blink, and suddenly you can't find oxygen in your lungs or saliva on your tongue.

you die.

she is coming down from her jump—a double toe loop, clean, no staggering upon landing—and her chest is puffing with pride as she pummels into his inviting arms. peals of woollen laughter pouring out, permeating the air and the ice and the sky a sickeningly sweet pink, the adoration so thick it tastes sugary on your cat-stolen tongue. he cradles her so gently, warm, while her fingers latch onto the back of his coat, holding on as if there is no tomorrow. they are mindless in their exhilaration, their celebration, and you have nothing, know nothing but the obligation, the neediness to gawk at them like a boiled clam. you are jealous but not quite, you are lacking but not so much, you are thinking a mile a minute but your head is a pathetically blank slate. they laugh and chatter and hug; you frown and quiet and brace.

the silence is deafening.

***

he wants to love me, she says, out of the blue. in her hand is a closed pride and prejudice that you know very well she didn't enjoy one bit, but forced herself to read nonetheless because it is a classic. her gaze is unfocused, pointed elsewhere; her mouth is slightly agape but she doesn't seem to notice. he wants to love me, she parrots, starstruck. it's me, it's me, he wants to love me, he wants me—

she bursts into heart-wrenching sobs.

the desperation is clear where her red-rimmed eyes burn crimson and her teeth grind together menacingly. the deprecation follows suit, an irate fire aimed more at herself than you, scorching her bony hands an unshakeable quiver. this is anguish in its truest form, you deduce, hawklike eyes raking over her shaking shoulders, the fresh teardrops trailing off her face. this is mourning the sun and staving off the moon, this is crashing a car into a tree and watching it go up in flames, this is stripping one's own flesh down to the marrow and letting it rot—this is love. this is, in essence and in appearance, a lovesick heart. a woman's heart.

i should probably pride myself on it, shouldn't i? the engagement, she breathes when the saline no longer wretches her voice and stunts her throat. i should probably go about and tattle to any guileless person who would stop to listen. i should probably brag to every other woman on earth about how lucky i am to land myself a husband with good looks and great fortune. but i can never, her words crack miserably, and you think she is ready to cry some more, yet she reins it in like a champ. i can never let such filth pour out from this mouth, when all it's gonna do is taint him and praise me, gosh, think—

you stagger forward. it is easy to give comfort when you need it more than she does, when you know all too well the sentimentality and the animosity, when you can stand proudly and say been there, done that—you are experienced in the art of self-loath and denial. it is easy to walk the path you have trudged before, and it is no more difficult with an amateur in tow. you can pull the weight of both, and you will despite the odds. her breath is warm on your neck as she weeps herself a pacific, her hands tangled in your immaculate dress shirt, tiny; she is just a baby, undeserving of the burden this world has unceremoniously dropped on her.

she is too young. she is too in love.

somewhere in the snow, another one bites the dust.

***

the flowers are bright and fragrant, exuberant in the droop of vivid petals and overgrown leaves. you'll have to trim rather a lot of the bushy, shiny green, that's for sure, but you find yourself undisturbed by that fact. you are happy, always, when you cut off more than you think you need to yet the stem comes out lovely still, smooth under your fingers. your hands lead you, your scissors the white cane: you thrive in their care and protection. you may be untrained, unfamiliar, but they know better and they mean well. you won't fail.

you snipe off another leaf.

after that, can you wrap it up in cobalt paper and ribbons, he asks quietly, the question a bombshell in your arcadian shop. you eye him incredulously. never before have you seen such a terrible choice of colours—is he trying to recreate the primary colour chart? the rose is a bicolour, bright yellow billowing out into a velvety scarlet, and the blue clashes so violently with it that you have to shun the mental image to the back of your tired mind right as it appears. no, that certainly won't do.

he smiles sheepishly at you, his eyes—also a pretty shade of light blue, you've noticed—blinking slowly in the morning sunlight. she loves the damned colour more than she loves me, sometimes, he sighs long-sufferingly, fondly, gesturing at the roll of lapis paper in the corner. her whole study is blue, you know, all the walls and furniture, and half her wardrobe is the same. i just— i know it'll probably look bad, but i want to— i need to show her that i remember. that i haven't forgotten her in the long months we've spent apart. please, he says, voice laden with unshed tears. it's on no account conventional, the mix of hues, but i—

and you, you've always been soft in the face of tearful pleas and love: you cave in like an embrittled roof. the bouquet is going to be hideous, but you will make it artistically hideous. you have one job, this tedious morning, and you will finish it exceptionally.

(it takes you some serious digging to find your long-lost cobalt blue wrappings and ribbons, but the beam on his face is worth all the back pain you are due for this evening. and if his happiness isn't enough already to make your day a little bit better, brighter; then the sight of red, yellow and blue piling so snuggly onto each other in a delicate and masterful nosegay sure is deserving of the glee on your own lips.

yes, yes. you can make primary colours work, can't you?)

***

the prideful blossoms peek out from a blue cocoon. a book lies neglected on the bedside table. an afghan, two kids; unbidden fondness overflowing.

i love you so much, he says softly, the wrinkles around his baby blues scrunching up adorably. and i love you too, she answers, fingers avid and lips puckered when she reaches out a hand, tranquilly, to touch his cheek. their legs interweave, and for the first time in forever:

they trust.

***

the wedding is on the sixth of may.

you've come unwillingly. it is rude to reject an invitation when the invitation is the new couple showing up on your doorstep, giddy hands intertwining and mouth stretched from one ear to another. it's endearing, really, if isn't for the fact that they were ringing you awake at six on a sunday, after you'd just settled in bed.

they were indeed very rude. you wouldn't let anything convince you otherwise.

they strutted into your living room with ease, having navigated the halls countless times before. you made them tea. the wakefulness of being up early was seeping out of you at an alarming rate, and you wanted to spit at least a profanity in their face but you looked up, unprepared; they were aglow, happy. you huffed out a breath. they won already.

come to our wedding, she said gently, and you nodded without thinking.

as long as they are pleased.

(she is in a dress so elaborate it can rival the princess of wales' wedding gown. he is in a suit, three-piece, deep cerulean and exquisite worsted wool. a bouquet of pinkish sweetness—peach rose, white lotus, baby breath and tulips, accentuated with tiny bridal crown daffodils—lays dormant in her gloved hand.

none of it matters. the radiant love in their crinkling eyes is more than you could ever ask to bear witness to.

and if you stay for longer than it is necessary, let's say it's because of the food and drinks at the reception and not the happiness you feel for their eventual union. yes, of course; that is all.)