At the ice rink. Wendy steps carefully, as if from the deep green sea. Onto solid ground. A few uncertain mermaid steps. And she sits lightly on the wooden bench to unlace her skates. She stands and looks around. He stands mute beside her.
Clutching an enormous purse in a tiny hand, she turns her big green eyes towards him. So delicate, so fragile. So much smaller without the huge cork platform soles, her tiny sea-girl feet are nearly lost beneath the flapping seaweed tail of dark green five-button flairs. And her voice. It's so small. Despite leaning in, he doesn't know what she wants.
Newly arrived on dry land, she seems unsteady without skates, without shoes. He reaches a protective hand down to her, but he can't make contact. He can't reach her.
Of course, she's in no danger. She doesn't need a Gentleman's steadying hand. Only the whereabouts of the Ladies.
Maybe she sees him - if she sees him at all - very, very small and far away. Through the big end of the telescope. Peadar in a glass.
Glimpsed through rainwater pearls loosely scattered across the train window, a slender rain-soaked waif slips away on a northern hillside.
Or down deep, down deep, a whoozy ghostly face looks up from the dark green waters of a wishing well.
He so wanted to hold Wendy's hand at the ice rink.
