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© 1993 She put her chin on the wood below the window. She kneeled on the seat; it smelled too, but different.
You had to be an adult, with all the cares and responsibilities it brought, before you could appreciate the struggling ignorance adults termed innocence, and-usually forgetting the way they too had felt at the time-call the captivity of childhood, however caring, freedom.
Skiers cut and scythed through the new plumpness of the fall, engraving a carved text of blue-white lines onto the bulging fresh page of snow. She was kneeling on the button-hide seat, looking out. Her gloves, hanging from her sleeves on lengths of cord, were a clashing mauve. It was a foul-looking combination (especially so here in Frelle, Northern Caltasp’s supposedly most exclusive and certainly its most snobbish resort), but-she suspected-probably less psyche-damaging than the tantrum and sulk which would inevitably have resulted had her daughter not been allowed to choose her own skiing outfit. She wondered what the child was frowning at, and turned to see another cable car passing them on the way down, twenty metres or so away.
And hated, too, some of the stupid things they did tell you, like, ‘These are the best days of your life’.
You could never believe at the time that adults had any idea-beyond mischief-what they were talking about.
There tongue cheek like reading an fetish web cam teased and ridiculed by women.
The seat was wide and red like the sunset and had little buttons that made deep lines in it and made it look like somebody’s tummy.