The Mare

Paul

She stared at me a long moment, then looked away. “I guess it’s normal,” she said.

“Normal?”

“My dad did it. Everybody makes a production out of it, but every time you turn around somebody’s doing it. It didn’t mean anything, right?”

Her sarcasm was cheap but sharp, and though I meant to humble myself, it made me mad. I said, “Actually, it did mean something. It meant that somebody was paying attention to me and holding me like she meant it.”

“Then why is it over?”

Because Polly ended it. “Because I wanted it to be you.”

She frowned like she heard the unsaid thing, then shook her head, almost twitched it, like she was shaking something from her ear.

“I want you,” I said.

Her chin quivered; as though to hide it, she raised her hand to her face. The gesture was piercing, and for a second I was sure she was crying — though I knew that Ginger has not cried since childhood. I moved closer to her. “Ginger,” I said. “I wanted you to know because—”

She raised her head and dropped her hand. “Velvet is coming this weekend,” she said. “I can’t cancel it. I didn’t let her come last time because she messed up at school. But she needs to practice for an event.” And she stood up, like to leave.

“Ginger,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Where I always am, right in front of you.”

“Listen,” I said. “I know what I did was cowardly and fucked-up. But I love you. Do you love me?”

She looked at me then and her eyes finally showed her. “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t feel it now.” And she left the room. I heard the front door open and softly close.