When her wake-up call rang at 6 a.m., Samantha ran to the window as if it were Christmas. She wanted to be sure it was still snowing. She wanted to be certain that she would be the first one on that mountain. The Toblerone bars, the vodka minis, and Percocet of only four hours ago now sat comfortably in the middle of her forehead like a cozy fox hat. The giddy anticipation of being out in the fresh powder transformed the heaviness in her body into a childlike comfort of being swaddled in a snowsuit by a nanny in Gstaad or Saint-Moritz.

Samantha caught a glimpse of herself in her sinewy yellow ski suit as she walked out the door of the hotel. She remembered that her mother referred to some of her friends as having “the hoofprint of life” stamped on their face. Making her way to the Silver Queen Gondola at the foot of Aspen Mountain, Samantha felt the possibility of finally abandoning those embedded imprints.

While she waited for the first lift up, she stopped at a bronze-plated espresso cart for a cappuccino with a double shot of grappa to warm herself up.

“Must be about two feet of fresh snow up there,” she overheard the girl behind the cart say. Samantha decided not to wipe the snow from her goggles. She would allow the chill to coat her vision and let the warmth of her drink envelop her.

As Samantha rode the Silver Queen Gondola lift, the snow continued to fall. When she reached the top, the entire mountain was a blurry white universe. Samantha took a deep breath and felt that she had never been so close to happiness.

She reached into her pocket for her remaining few Percocet and Wellbutrin. She wasn’t really sure which was which and she really didn’t care. She deserved a glorious ride.

Samantha took off, heading down through the pure, untracked snow, picking up speed. She was finally free of everything: the men, the dinner parties, the face peels, the regrets about children, the confusion about ambition. Nothing mattered anymore except this rush of life. All Samantha could hear was the sound of her own breathing.

Samantha increased her speed. She could barely see through the falling snow sticking to her goggles. She sped down the slope effortlessly.

Midway down the mountain, another trail merged with hers. She saw a pink blur approaching. She assumed the pink was a reflection from the snow. Through the muffled silence she could hear scattered words, “Samantha! Something something Barry! Something something yellow!” Samantha pointed her skis straight down the narrow trail, skiing even faster. She was convinced speed would erase from her consciousness these fragments of her ridiculous past. Barry was over. Being “the Fashionable Mrs. Whoever-she-was” was over. She would not let this pink dot of self-recrimination obstruct her path.