He let out a heavy, resigned breath and traced with his eyes the course of the cloud that condensed immediately in the subzero air. The cloud for its short lifespan before evanescence appeared Hiroshima A-mushroom to him, albeit on a horizontal plane. Through the dissipating mist, somewhere opposite to the direction in which his ex skated off, in spite of the squint against the stadium lights, he caught a fleeting glimpse of another skater. A babe!!!, his type, stare at those curves -- his neuronal circuitry fired. The widening of his eyes triggering off a cascade of ecstatic beeps to passage through the evolutionary baggage of synapses towards the sovereign seat of sexual attraction in his mind. In double-quick time.
The minister's son inhaled deeply, dug his blades into the ice beneath him (thinning as he hadn't moved off from the spot since the quarrel), rubbed his gloved palms together for mock warmth, couldn't wipe off his Machiavellian smile, slided his takeoff foot backwards, and darted off in pursuit of that unforeseeable answer -- his new target. This time round, she'd never dump me. That he was cognisant of with a newfound perspicacity. She mustn't, he cinched himself, for he was the minister's son.
