Page 32 of Run, Run, Roommates
Brin’s got lean legs, strong thighs. I rarely get to see them, except when she’s in this dress.
We get the dress on and Brin finishes our creation off with the hat and sunglasses. We have to press the sunglasses into its face to get them to stay and my rock smile looks unhinged, but it works. We crowd into the selfie together.
“Do they have a name?” I ask while I send the picture.
Brin studies our cheery, Frankensteined monster. “Shelley.”
I sputter. “As in Mary Shelley? Like Frankenstein?”
“Yeah. Or it could be short for Sheldon. I’m not going to force our snow person into binary gender norms.”
“I was literally just thinking about Frankenstein’s monster too.”
“Really?” She flashes me a huge grin and holds her hand up for a high five. “Great minds think alike.”
“And so do ours.” I smack her hand with mine while she cackles. Then I pull out my phone and we pose for a picture.
Brin puts her hands on her hips. “I do want this dress back, but it feels rude to strip it off our snow monster.”
Rude or not, we do it. Then we hustle back to the apartment to roll out the dough. We don’t have a rolling pin, so we use an empty wine bottle. While the cookies are in the oven, we make hot chocolate (one point) and finish wrapping the day’s presents (four points).
We pull the cookies out of the oven right before we race off to Rockefeller Plaza, so we haven’t decorated them yet. We’ll have to do it tomorrow.
I lace my skates up and then offer Brin my hand while she gets to her feet.
“Okay,” she says, once she’s standing. “One goal achieved: stand on skates. That’s all I actually have to do, right? Stand long enough for a picture?”
“On the ice,” I clarify. “You can do this.”
She’s wobbly on her first step, so I offer her my arm. She takes it lightly, and we shuffle to the edge of the rink and step down onto the ice.
“Whoa!” Brin grips my arm tighter. Her knees knock together and her skates angle out. I quickly steer us out of the flow of skaters and into the middle of the rink by putting my hands on her hips and pushing.
Once we skid to a stop—I have to brake for both of us—I bend over and lift her pant leg up. She’s dressed for her shift at the restaurant, so she’s in black stretchy slacks that cover the top of the skates.
“They’re too loose,” I tell her. “They need to feel solid on your feet, no wiggle room.” I get to my knees on the hard ice in front of her and unlace her right foot.
Brin’s hands fall to my shoulders as I work, bracing herself against me. I tie the second laces tighter and get to my feet.
“Better. Okay, here’s what you do.” I show her how to push off with one foot and we make it a few wobbly paces while she gets a feel for it. I drift alongside her, keeping my eyes on her and our fellow skaters.
I have to dodge a young kid, so I turn and skate backward right in front of Brin.
“Whoa,” she says, tottering, distracted. “How did you get to be such a good skater?”
“Played a bit of hockey as a kid.” That’s all I offer, but Brin’s never minded me being tight-lipped about my childhood. “Are you ready for us to get a picture?”
“Yeah.” I let go of Brin’s hand to glide toward the nearest spectator. I slowly rub my thumb over the inside of my hand.
It felt nice, holding Brin’s hand. Better than nice. Super innocent and sweet and addictive.
That’s something I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m more of the hookup type, quick to fuck, open with my friends and prospective partners.
I am not ashamed of my sexuality or my history, but it puts it into stark relief how different we are.
I shake it off as I skid to a stop in front of the guy, who agrees to take our picture. I skate back to Brin and we pose, smiling.
“Thank you so much,” Brin says to the man as she shuffles her way to me as I take my phone back. We join the flow of traffic and I check the pictures.
