A block of misty ice rests centre stage, beads of water sliding down it as the outer layer warms beneath the spotlight. This tent is cold, your breath turning to fog in the air. A man with a grey moustache emerging from the deep shadow beneath his hat stands at the entrance, watching silently.

A dead-eyed girl in indigo velvet stalks up to it, black high heels clicking on the wood. She draws a knife, and stabs it into the block with a snarling cry. Her white face flushes pink as she hacks at the ice, her hands turn red and cracked and sore. Platinum blonde hair flies around her face, falling out of her hair ribbons, sticking to her sweat, as the block slowly forms the shape of a man beneath her knife. A man tall and sturdy, enveloped in coat and scarf. The carved curves which are his eyes gleam.

Another girl appears, tall and voluptuous, eyes cast downward in deep sadness, shoulders hunched as if to hide herself from the audience. Her clothes are plainer, neatly cut, and her face clean of makeup.

The knife wielder's eyes blaze with hate and envy, but she steps back, allowing her partner to embrace the ice statue. The tall girl rests her head on the ice man's shoulder, her arms around him, and water soaks her dress.

The ice beneath her hands turns from smooth cloudy white to soft cloth; a brown coat, a white scarf, black leather boots. The ice man's face warms to faint pink, cheeks flushed as if after a long walk in snow. Ice turns to light blond hair, and falls lightly over his face. Violet seeps into his eyes, and finally he takes a breath and throws his own arms tightly around the two women.