I hate the wintertime. Well, not exactly. I like it from the inside, watching the snow fall and all that, but I hate the snow and the ice and the sleet. She, however, loves it with everything in her. She played hockey in Highschool and university, so she feels at home one the ice. Unfortunately, this extends to dragging me onto the ice. I can barely skate. I’m standing there while she sails around the little makeshift rink like she’s twenty again.

It would be cute, if not for me being on the ice also. She dodges little kids and couples, coming to an impressive sliding stop beside me. “God, Ramos, I fucking hate you.” I say, gulping as I glare at her. Her cheeks are flushed with joy and her eyes are sparkling. I’m about ready to kill her for bringing me out here. I hate doing things I’m not good at; I hate looking stupid. “I hate the cold, and this stupid rink, and all these goddamn kids!” I complain, and she rolls her eyes at me.

She smiles easily, relaxed and calm as she skates slow circles around me. “Ay, nena, you’re no fun. I could teach you, ya sabes.” She offers, and I sigh. I cross my arms, frown deepening. I don’t need to be coddled, and I hate being told what to do. “Don’t call me nena, or any of that soft shit. It’s Santos to you,” I snap, and she clicks her tongue at me. She holds out a hand, and I don’t take it. I hate accepting help. I’m smart. I don’t need anyone to tell me how to do shit- I’ll figure it out.

She skates away with a frown, muttering to herself in Spanish. I have no clue what she’s saying, for most of it. I don’t care, either. I catch little pieces, like ‘stubborn’ and ‘mean’. I get the feeling she thought taking me to this market would prompt a nice, sweet romantic moment. That we’d skate together, and kiss under twinkling lights. But that’s not who I am. Never has been, never will be. I hate all that soft shit. This was our first real date- our first real moment.

I get off the ice, return my rented skates, and head towards a café in the square. She follows me, and drops cash in the hands of the teen running the skate rental booth before jogging after me. She enters the coffee shop just as I’m about to pay and plucks my debit card from my hands, putting a twenty down on the counter. Tells the cashier to keep the change. I take my styrofoam cup of tea, and I sit down. “I thought you wanted to skate,” I say, taking in her posture and the look on her face.