“I’m in a diaper!” Ice clinks as it shifts around in its plastic bag inside said diaper. At least I had the sense to pack my fleece onesie with a flap on the butt.
I agreed to come to Ellicottville for the weekend under false pretenses. When I said, “Sure, why not?” to a cozy condo with views of the mountain, it did not include me going up one. I’m not saying Panamanians don’t ski, but this one doesn’t. I never agreed to any snow sports, but I got tricked under the guise of a scenic tour and hot chocolate. I got both—after I rolled down a slope like an uncoordinated tumbleweed.
That slope I was on? It’s the one they use for beginner lessons. I was the only adult in a class of twelve- and fourteen-year-olds. One of them told me I should’ve stayed at home.
Duh!
I’ve never been more grateful for my booty, a snow suit, and a helmet. The first was padding to prevent injury. The other two masked my identity.
Where was Marcela? Snowboarding down one of the steepest runs.
Only one of us channeled Queen Latifah inThe Last Holidayif she didn’t stick the landing. That person was me. My instructor was kind enough to escort me to safety. The kids were alright, but I was not.
“The bar seats have cushions.” Marcela waves her phone in confirmation while doing her best not to laugh at the ice jiggling between my booty. My cold reality, all because she wanted to ski.
“No.”
“One hour. The drink menu is good.”
Dang it.
“One cocktail,” I protest.
“Onehour.” She holds up a finger. “All drinks on me. I’ll throw in dessert.”
“You were paying anyway.” I shake out a wedgie.
Marcela lied again.
The bar chairs do not have cushions. There is nary a fabric in sight, unless you count the cloth napkins I’m piling under my jeans. The drinks are good, though. I blew through the first and am now on number two. Sam, the bartender, makes a balanced raspberry mule, which made the trek out of my pajamas and into the cold worth it. For now.
Easy Daisy is a small bar at the end of Ellicottville’s main street. Blink and you’ll miss it between gift shops and restaurants that charge the GDP of small countries for the same lettuce I can buy at the store. The crowd here is small. A few of us are at the bar, facing a wall of illuminated bricks and shelves of liquor. Others are gathered around bistro tables with chairs that also lack cushions.
I won’t admit it out loud and face Marcela’s “I told you so,” but this is nice. Relaxing.
“Don’t look, but there’s a guy checking you out.”
And now my guts are touching my butt.
“What? Ow!” I squeak at her grip on my thigh.
“Don’t look!” Her eyes lift above my sweater. “He’s cute, and he’s coming over.”
“No. This was not part of the going-out deal,” I hiss. “Drinks. Dessert. That’s it.”
Her smirk brushes the rim of her martini glass. “There’s one more D to consider. Unclench your hands and breathe. You got this.”
“I didn’t want any—”
“Mind if I join you?”
I clench my butthole at the cool edge in his voice. Panic triggers the reminder of today’s floor routine down themountain as pain sprouts up my swollen cheeks, which are in need of a bed and not a hard barstool. My inhale is sharp, and it goes down the wrong pipe.
Marcela bunches her lips as she gently pats my back. I drain the last sips of my mule and swivel toward the man standing behind me.
He’s in a dark gray sweater and jeans. Medium height with a round face, small lips, and wisps of chocolate brown hair underneath a knitted winter hat with a pom on top. It’s similar to the one I’m wearing that presses down my curls.
My sister knees me after the sixth second of silence.
