Tuesdays on the Ice – Part 2: Spring Thaw

By February, Pekka could skate a full lap without falling. He still could not stop gracefully, and he insisted it was because his skates were defective. Aino insisted it was because he was too busy looking at her.

"I'm not looking at you," he said, on a Tuesday when the snow had finally stopped and the sky was brilliant and blue.

"You're looking at me now."

"That's because you're in front of me and I'm trying not to hit you."

"You're not going to hit me. You're going to stop, and then you're going to fall over, and I'll catch you."

"That's a very complicated plan," said Pekka, grinning, and then did exactly that, falling into her arms with a grunt. She caught him, staggering a little, and they stood tangled together on the ice, laughing so hard their breath came in gusts.

They sat afterwards on the bench by the pond, a thermos of coffee between them. Pekka had brought his mother's cinnamon buns, slightly squashed. Aino had brought a blanket that she had knitted herself, badly, and he wore it like a king's robe.

"You never told me why you come here alone," said Pekka, after a while.

"I told you. The ice doesn't ask anything of me."

"You told me that in January. I think there's more."

She turned the thermos cup in her gloved hands.

"My mother was a skating coach," she said quietly. "She taught half the children in this city. When she got ill, I came here every Tuesday to skate for her, because she couldn't come any more. I think I've never stopped."

Pekka was silent. Then he set down his cup and reached over, carefully, and took her hand through the glove.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry. Just be here," said Aino, and her voice wavered. "That's what she used to say. Just be here, and keep your knees bent."

"Then I'll keep my knees bent," said Pekka softly. "And I'll be here, every Tuesday, as long as you'll have me. Even when I'm terrible."

"You'll always be terrible."

"Only at standing still," said Pekka. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to come to my flat on Sunday, and eat my mother's cinnamon buns in a proper kitchen, and tell me all the things you're scared to say on the ice?"

Aino laughed, wet-eyed. "Yes," she said. "But I'd like you to ask me something else, too."

"Ask."

"Would you kiss me, here, on the bench, with the ducks watching and the sun on the ice? Because I've been wanting to since the first Tuesday you fell over."

Pekka's grin was enormous. "Yes," he said. "And if you want me to stop, I'll stop, and then we'll go skating again, very carefully."

She leaned in first, and he met her halfway, his hand coming up to cup her cold cheek. The kiss was soft and warm and a little clumsy, tasting of coffee and cinnamon and the cold winter air. Above them, the sun broke fully through the clouds, and the whole frozen pond began to shine.

When they parted, both of them were smiling so widely it hurt.

"Green?" asked Pekka.

"Green," said Aino. "Very green. Now stand up, Pekka, before the ducks start laughing at us."

"They've been laughing since January," said Pekka, and stood, wobbling, and held out his hand to her across the ice.