Sugaring Off to Wonderland
Story Teaser
001 | April and Jack
Neither one of us intended to become barstool storytellers. In fact, subjecting ourselves to the tedious task of daily writing seemed unthinkable. We were there for the après ski, or in our case après snowshoe Dunkel and Grüner. It was a sloshy spring day in the shoulder season when tourism slows, and sap starts to flow. We were discussing bear awareness with Torben the bartender, while a traveling nurse from Nebraska read paperback romance. A pleasant and trouble-free Tuesday, until it was awkwardly interrupted by an unstaged performance.
“Sugar Off, Jack!” We looked toward the commotion. On a better day her weathered beauty alone might have turned heads, but today it was theatrics. Caked in mud and giving someone the bird. We have all been there, when the filters are tapped out, and causing a scene is the only option. She stomped her way to the timber bar in moonboot hikers, a broken snowshoe dangling from her ski pack, “Can I get an Alpine Negroni?” “Sorry, only beer and wine.” She gave a sideways smirk, “Chablis then.” Torben passed a menu as the recipient of her middle finger gesturing bellowed from an overlook above.
“April!” Jack raised his mug to the mostly empty beer hall where everyone was visible. She rolled her eyes and ignored him. “April, baby, please.” This was getting silly but all we could do was watch. He swaggered down the rustic staircase and across the stained floor like an aging rockstar in blocks of colors and oversized aviators. We responsively sipped our drinks, while Torben braced for boil over, and the nurse turned another page. Only the lover’s spat we expected unexpectedly turned into something sweeter. Jack lovingly wiped the mud off April’s nose and held her in his arms, diffusing a sticky situation. Then she met his eyes, stripped down to a houndstooth base layer, and tossed her muddied snowsuit aside. After that they kissed, for longer than was comfortable, before sugaring off to wonderland.
002 | That Night
That night in bed, one of us fell down the rabbit hole of sleepless wonderment, where did they come from, why was her snowshoe broken, and where did they go, while the other snored and mumbled about muddy dancing. It was collectively confusing, and as the rare sun rose outside our fern frost window, we did something out of character. We started making up stories about this elusive couple with a creative energy that was baffling so early in the morning. Still clad in our matching Mansfield stripe pajamas, without our ritual cups of maple breakfast blend, we plotted dopamine frolics until we were filled with sappy pleasure.