Words hurt, but a knife wounds with the sharper pain.

He had admired the Russian Sami people for creating two hundred words to describe snow and ice. That eloquence used to impress; less so now her lexicon of inadequacy had grown with use and he was on the receiving end of hailstorms of stinging criticism.

They hurt. More so when others heard, especially if they asked, “What did you do to provoke her?”

Of course, it would have been worse had her throwing arm been more accurate. For her emotional abuse turned physical and she hurled his Zwilling’s 8-inch chef’s knife. She missed him; the blade embedded in a cupboard, a foot from his right ear. No regrets, she followed that up with a volley of righteous indignation and stormed out of their apartment.

The thrown knife did, however, puncture the benefit of any remaining doubt. He knew he couldn’t stay. Hurriedly packing his Mazda3 with only that which she called his, he left. Just driving; anywhere, anywhere that wasn’t there, there with her.

An hour’s drive, already out of the city, he answered his sister’s call. Phoebe would believe him. And she did, shocked but not surprised, having seen glimpses of her brother’s slippery slope of a relationship. Her belief of him always a constant ray of sunshine in his increasingly overcast life.

Phoebe knew he was right to flee, staying would endanger him. But even so, she worried, “Where are you going, Mark?”

He realised he had no answer. Caught in that maelstrom of criticism, he had hunkered down, his world darker, narrower, focused on just getting through each day unscathed. The darkness had blotted out his horizon; when you just take one step at a time, who has the balls to think about the destination?

So, he turned his sister’s question over in his mind. Oddly appreciative of having a choice.

“West,” he finally offered, “Towards the mountains.”

His sister, not prepared to leave his fate to chance, and ever resourceful, said, “I will call you back,” before spending the next hour using google.

She discovered a collection of buildings for which village was too grandiose a name. Deep in the mountains, the end of the line, about as far away as you could go in the whole damn state.

And importantly the isolation meant the ski lodge had trouble hiring. They needed a sous-chef, a splendid title in a kitchen staff of four, and she recommended Mark to the owner. Of course, the fact he had worked at a Michelin starred restaurant in the city was an advantage. But his sister carefully tip-toed around the reason he sought work in the back of beyond.

No mention of the heart-breaking change in Mark over the past year. The laughter, the teasing, all gone as his joie de vivre leeched away; his girlfriend blaming him for all manner of things. His sister had watched Mark’s world shrink; his self-esteem eroded by constant comparisons to others, always unfavourable.

And yet the optimist in her brother constantly envisaged things were about to turn around. Sure that the gaslighting would stop. Phoebe thanked God the knife missed, but she was grateful that the blade had finally cut through Mark’s notion that emotional abuse softens. It rarely did, abusers usually remain abusers, and frankly, Phoebe was glad his girlfriend had finally overplayed her hand.

At times Phoebe had wondered what Mark saw in her, concluding that the sex must be sensational to compensate for his waning confidence outside the bedroom. Not an issue she could raise with her brother. A reservation her husband didn’t share and one night, after a few beers, Mark and his brother-in-law had that conversation.

And the report back from her husband had been the first time Phoebe used the bitch word. For the bitch, sex was about control, not love, something doled out to Mark on a reward and punishment basis. An old fashioned one at that, seemingly based on the notion that sparing the rod spoiled the child.

When Phoebe called her brother back, he was topping up the Mazda’s fuel, having eaten at a country pub. She had no inclination to ask about his meal, Mark was a classically trained chef with an innovative approach to food. And when he was underwhelmed, he quietly fumed about the swill boring kitchens inflicted on diners.

She recalled the day when it first occurred to her that her brother’s relationship was turning toxic. Mark had cooked something special for her birthday and Phoebe had so enjoyed the simple-sounding but delicately delicious tomato and basil-based sauce he had created.

But, as the meal progressed, his girlfriend was slyly critical, fault-finding that escalated into a full-blown verbal punch to the solar plexus. She concluded that Heinz tomato ketchup was tastier.

It seemed to Phoebe and her husband that that comment visibly diminished her brother. They were both amazed he didn’t, as he usually did with mediocre food choices, point out the advantages of quality ingredients.

Not wishing to trigger any of those bad memories, Phoebe contented herself with getting Mark to put the address of the Jason Gully lodge into his GPS. And, after listening to sisterly advice about not driving the five hundred kilometres non-stop, he set off, just a little more determined now his journey had a purpose.

It would be foolhardy to imagine that Mark shed the impact of the abuse the further he went from his abuser. Nevertheless, the drive felt cathartic; the lid he kept on his emotions seemed to slowly unscrew and, as he hit the colder mountain air, he allowed himself to breathe out loud.

Then, as the Mazda climbed up the mountain pass, its heater working overtime, he even indulged himself by singing along to Bruce Springsteen, something she once chastised him for. The irony of Born to Run put him in a better frame of mind. And that he imagined would help with his interview at the ski-lodge.

It was bitterly cold when he stepped out of his car and Mark was thankful he had, in the haste of his departure, remembered his thick winter coat. Forgetting his beanie and gloves, however, was something he would have to put right if he ended up staying at that elevation.

The lodge only comprised four buildings, though there were a couple more at the bottom of the slope down past the main building. The snow was powdery and, although cold, looked inviting and for a moment ennui almost claimed him. This may have been the end of the road, but he was tempted, all Oates like, to mutter, "I am just going outside and may be some time," and to keep on going, out across the snow, until the whiteness claimed him from the darkness.

But knowing the pain that would cause Phoebe, he turned towards the lodge, remembering she would want him to take care given the icy conditions underfoot.

He met Marsha, the wife of the couple who owned the lodge. He found out she ran the restaurant, currently only assisted by a pastry chef, Jenna, and a kitchen hand, Stephan.

His resume and the long discussion about cooking turned out to be all Marsha needed. Mark was a godsend and she hired him on the spot. And that first night in the kitchen, Marsha knew, knew for sure, that Mark could not just cook, he had been blessed by the cooking Gods and was more innovative than anyone who had ever worked at Jason Gully.

It was, as Marsha told her husband the next day, so fortuitous that she had assembled a kitchen dream team before the winter booking peak. They both knew Jenna, despite appearances, was incredibly skilled in the arts of sugar and flour. And Stephan was just Stephan, all you would expect of a twenty-two year old East European apprentice of doubtful visa status who loved to ski cross country.

For Mark, stepping back into a commercial kitchen was a reminder that there was, for him, a place where he felt safe, a sanctuary from the sandpapering of his self-esteem. It so could be a tough working environment, but Mark always felt more appreciated when he prepared and plated food.

A skill that was admired by his new colleagues that first night as they cooked together. And that admiration was soon reciprocated, especially for Jenna once Mark saw past the braces that supported her calves and ankles.

That it took Mark longer to see Jenna as a competent chef wouldn’t have surprised her. Being born with spina bifida had weakened more than her lower legs. It had also weakened how she was perceived, usually seen as somewhat lesser; and not just below the knees but in other ways too.

Some of that was true of course, it greatly pained Jenna that her back might not stand up to pregnancy even though her ovaries were well up to the task. But most of it was just shitty ill-informed prejudice.

The most painful assumption, all too readily made, was conflating physical and intellectual disability. Jenna was a seriously intelligent woman and loathed the patronisation that had accompanied what she said and did for most of her life.

It hadn’t helped that Jenna had turned her back on academic subjects at school. Not that she wasn’t up to the task, rather she just preferred the more creative subjects. She had done art, design and technology, creative writing and even woodwork. But the thing she loved most was cooking.

There was now nothing Jenna couldn’t turn her hand to in the kitchen, though, having been captured by sugar at an early age, desserts remained her first love. As a teenager, she baked for the sheer joy of it and would spend hours designing and icing ever more elaborate cakes. Birthday cakes were a speciality and there was no joy greater than the smile of a child on seeing their cake.

A disability does not mean losing one’s love of life. And Jenna loved more than creating desserts and cakes. She read widely and liked to debate and discuss all manner of things. Perhaps it was her compensating for how inadequate she felt about physical activity, but Jenna had always been a chatterbox.

With so many physical activities ruled out, Jenna, once she left school, did discover she adored sex, for which her back and weak ankles were but a minor impediment. But, despite her enjoyment of lust, she was at Jason Gully because she needed time out.

Time away from the chat-ups, the pick-ups and the whole shooting box that went with finding a man. She had come to realise she needed more than lust and had mistakenly associated having sex with finding love. At twenty-five, experience had proved her working assumption that sex begat love to be misguided. She loved the wonderful orgasms, but, for her, the only long-lasting effect of sex was a broken heart.

Jenna definitely now accepted that men didn’t see her as a mercy fuck. They genuinely appreciated her bedroom skills. But no-one, so far at least, had really seen her as girlfriend material. And she knew, rightly as it happened, that that was part of the cross her disability had fashioned for her to carry.

As far as her sex life went Jason Gully was all she had expected, it was indeed like joining a convent. But unfortunately, Jenna hadn’t appreciated that the isolation meant the ski-lodge felt like a convent for those whose vows included silence. Particularly in the afternoons before dinner preparation started, with the guests and Stephan out skiing, she felt very lonely.

So, for her, Mark seemed like a godsend; she latched onto him and was delighted to show him around and then to spend time just talking. At first, she didn’t notice how one-sided the conversations were. But when she did, she came to feel like she was drawing blood from a stone. Mark’s feelings seemed encased in ice, so reluctant was he to open up about himself.

Having only chipped away at the iceman, Jenna one day chanced on the name Luigi Rosselli and, oh boy, did she see a different side of Mark. Luigi was one of the country’s leading chefs, as well-known for his tantrums as for his cooking.

And, when Jenna discovered that Mark had worked in Luigi’s kitchen, she expected tales of woe given the press usually mentioned that Luigi was hard on staff. But no, what she got from Mark was laughter and funny stories. That and a genuine admiration for the man he described as, “The person who taught me what it really means to love our craft.”

That sentiment resonated with Jenna. For her, a never-ending love of cooking had begun as a teenage romance. She smiled at Mark’s use of the word craft, and he smiled back. A connection germinated, nurtured by sharing a love of creative cooking.

As a result, Mark was so much warmer that night in the kitchen. His colleagues were delighted with the appearance of some joie de vivre as they prepared and plated the evening meals. That made what happened the following evening all the more surprising to Jenna.

The next afternoon Mark, busy phoning his sister, couldn’t talk to Jenna. For Phoebe needed to tell him the outcome of her, and the lawyer she had hired, efforts on his behalf. That morning the bitch had been served with an apprehended violence order which prevented her coming within a kilometre of Mark. That would certainly keep her out of the ski lodge carpark.

While that was a relief to Mark, the mask that hid his hurt slipped that evening when Marsha yelled across the kitchen, “Table four has sent back their steaks. Overcooked for the rare they asked for. Come on Mark we have to do better than that.”

And Jenna watched Mark go pale and grip the edge of the bench, not in rage, but seeming supporting himself as if he expected to be knocked over by Marsha’s words. Knowing he had been okay with Luigi’s robust kitchen manner, Jenna realised Marsha had just triggered something dark in Mark’s life. And recent too, as presumably the damage was done subsequent to Mark working for Luigi.

Jenna felt for him. She reached out and placed her hand on his. He flinched. Started to withdraw his hand. Then stopped, his eyes lingered for a minute or so on her hand gripping the top of his. No words were necessary for Mark to visibly relax. Then together, they redid the dish to praise from table four’s diners.

For Mark, Jenna’s empathy did melt a little of the ice around his emotions. He began to feel as he did around his sister. Like Jenna was on his side, prepared to help, her calculus not including what was in it for her.

And so, Jenna noticed a greater openness in their afternoon chats. She learnt a little more and began to suspect that a toxic relationship had iced Mark’s heart.

That empathy and insightfulness had Mark realising he had underestimated Jenna. Never judge a book by its cover had been one of his dad’s sayings, and Mark realised he had fallen into the trap of linking physical with other capabilities.

Consequently, and rather sweetly, he encouraged Jenna to open up about the impact of her disability. The pain of hearing her talk about her ‘could nots’ saddened Mark, especially as some seemed assumed not obviously real.

Their closeness and greater understanding led to a surprising turn of events. One day, Jenna said she had never skied. Mark smiled, and, aided and abetted by Stephan, got skis and boots.

With each man holding an arm, Jenna found herself at the top of the beginner’s slope. She wondered out loud if her ankles would be up to it and all Mark would say before he went to the bottom of the slope was, “We don’t know until we try.”

And, after a moment or two’s anxiety, Stephan let her go.

Jenna glided down the powdery slope, surprisingly well balanced, her grin Christmassy childlike. Poles tucked under her elbows she was, for a moment, Lindsay Vonn. She wouldn’t have trusted her ankles, but Mark had, and she simply felt exhilarated by the normality. No matter the eight-year-old who skied right past her.

So lost in the moment was she that she didn’t notice the need to stop where the slope flattened before plunging more steeply down to the chalet further down the mountain. Mark noticed and he stepped to his right intent on intercepting her before she found out, on the steeper slope, that maybe she was not yet Lindsay.

When she bumped him, with a giggle, she caught him off balance, and he slipped backwards. With his arms wrapped around her to halt her progress, she fell with him. And in that tangle of arms, legs, skis and poles, they hit the snow, or more accurately Mark’s back hit the snow with Jenna lying on top of him. Their faces inches apart, their eyes instinctively locked.

In that moment their world narrowed. They had helped each other, they had eyes for each other, and nothing, not even Stephan’s laughter, penetrated their consciousness.

In her relentless search for love, Jenna had taken many a first step. Boldness one card she could play in the face of the physical imperfection she thought men focused on. She had, before she came to the mountains, however, sworn that she would be more careful. The pain of rejection had grown, compound disinterest.

And yet.

Her two unspoken words found an echo in Mark’s mind. His optimism about the bitch had failed. And yet there was a rarity in domestic violence by women. Someone like Jenna was unlikely to be cut from that cloth.

Their lips moved closer. Touching, grazing, melding; their mouths opened and their tongues danced together. That kiss seemed to them to last forever, but, in reality, Stephan didn’t take that much time to come down the slope and start removing Jenna’s skis.

Mark helped her to her feet and Stephan tactfully offered to return the skis, while his two colleagues, holding hands, more for affection than support Stephan imagined, walked towards their accommodation.

Her room, like his, was ski lodge cheap and cheerful. But, facing west, the dappled light of the afternoon sun made the space feel warmer, more homely.

The regret they shared about past relationships left them defensive about opening up. But their conversations had given them hope. So, as they kissed, that hope powered their hands as they helped each other with the non-trivial task of shedding their winter outfits. Both were possessed with an urgency, one not just driven by dinner preparation starting in under an hour.

Naked he led her to the bed. They lay side by side kissing and enjoying feeling their bodies touching. His hand cupped her a-cup breast and rolled a nipple between finger and thumb. She whimpered, more so when his tongue circled her areola and teased, then sucked, her firming nipple.

He surprised her by turning her over onto her front and kissing his way down her back to her crisscross of scars. He kissed the scars lovingly, sensually, even though he knew this was not an erogenous zone with nerves that could tingle.

But he also knew this was an emotional place for Jenna, the source of her feeling weakened. And his kisses, he hoped, conveyed acceptance. They did. Jenna found the sensuality incredible, the first man whose foreplay demonstratively enjoyed her body as it was.

As he turned her onto her back and she spread her legs, Mark was adoringly lost in the glistening wonderland that was her pussy. Jenna held her breath, in anticipation not nervous as in the past. Then achingly slowly his head lowered. Contact.

She gasped as his tongue grazed her labia, the astonishing feeling echoing the first time she had been touched there. Her body jerked as his tongue slid through her slit, licking her folds so delicately before dragging his tongue deeper, scooping her juices and smearing them on her clit.

Round and round her enflamed clit, circling faster and firmer, his tongue’s exquisite touch had Jenna whimpering, and pushing her hips up into his face coating him with her honey.

That she was aroused and edging towards release was not enough, never had been. She was a giver by nature. She twisted her body away from his mouth and pounced on his cock, grasping the base and guiding the head through her lips and over her soft tongue. She wanted his cock, wanted to lick it, to taste it, to feel it slide against her tongue as she devoured it whole.

Still, there was an enchanting awkwardness to her enthusiasm, displaying her lingering disbelief at the strong connection she was feeling for the man whose cock she was sucking.

That first taste of precum exploding on her taste buds was Jenna’s signal to pull away, letting his cock spring from her mouth, glistening with saliva. She licked her lips softly, then bit her bottom lip ever so cutely. Wondering if she may have been too forward for Mark.

But no, she hadn’t been. Mark’s smile lit up his face. It was a while since a woman had unconditionally wanted him.

Jenna scooted onto the centre of the bed, on her back, her legs spread invitingly. Mark slid forward and eased the engorged head of his penis along the dewy folds between her legs.

When she began to squirm in anticipation, he pressed his cock forward and felt her inner muscles stretching wider, welcoming him into the depths of her body.

He slid smoothly into her tight slippery pussy. Her eyes widened and they smiled at each other, beaming would be more accurate, as Mark began to slowly thrust back and forward. They took such joy in observing each other’s delight; Jenna grasped hold of his body as if afraid he might escape. She began to occasionally close her eyes, briefly withdrawing into herself to savour the pleasure.

Mark gazed at her expression, a fully realized grin that reached ear to ear, seeing it as a perfect distillation of her physical desire for him. He melted at that, knowing he desired her just as much. And closed his eyes, concentrating on the exquisite feel of pussy on cock.

Hunger then fed their actions, and Jenna’s expression completely changed. Her look became more wanton, sexual, needy. She was sweaty. Unravelling. Her hair stuck to her forehead.

Mark let go of all inhibitions. Throwing his head back, almost dizzy with his need for her. He whimpered. Her inner walls, viscous and warm, squeezed, milking him with her deepest muscles.

“Yes!" she cried out, high on their compatibility and driven wild by the thrill of Mark pumping her faster and harder. His moan drowned out the slap of flesh against flesh that echoed throughout the room.

Jenna didn't need to say she was about to cum. She just couldn't speak. Her body quaked with such an intensity; she focused inward, inward on the orgasm that was flowing, cresting, about to break over her. She teetered on the edge, then overwhelmed, came with a long guttural moan.

Mark could feel himself about to detonate. His balls constricted; his control slipped away. Her tremors were the final straw and he exploded, spurt after spurt of his cum pulsed into her pussy.

They then collapsed into each other’s arms, just snuggling together, a little stunned by the intensity of their lovemaking. Cuddling, caressing, whispering sweet nothings, they both pondered what had just happened.

In those intimate moments, before they showered and started work, Mark suspected that the bitch’s hold on him was finally severed. Jenna wondered if this was the start of what she longed for, being a girlfriend loved and accepted for what she was.

They were both totally right.