The Mare

Ginger

The night she left I went out to the horse barn. It was dark and I could hear the animals react to me when I came in, their silence sudden and massed, like powerful thoughts crowded together, thinking on me. Then I guess one of them grabbed a bucket in its teeth and starting banging it on a wall. Another one snorted and I could feel their thought-shapes part to let me in. Their attention dispersed; they breathed and made quiet noises to each other.

I thought, No wonder Velvet likes it here. It was safe and secret with them, the ground deep under me, under meadows and houses and human things; ant-swarm human thoughts and giant human feelings. Paul, his other woman, Michael, the chopped-up book of my past: wide, clean surges of hope and love forced into weird shapes, breaking free again. Velvet’s mother, her crushed little cursing face, her fighter’s calm, impassive face; that first time, the way she met my eyes like no one else ever did. Mi niña; Velvet; my Velvet. The horses.

I went to Fiery Girl. I couldn’t see anything but the flash of her eye and the outline of her ears and curious nose. There was a sign on her door; I imagined it still said “Do Not Touch.” But Velvet had touched her, rode her, cared for her. I put my hand through the bars and touched her nose. She jerked her head and I pulled my hand back, scared. The horse’s teeth flashed and she grunted; I realized she was biting at her door like a cat scratching at wood. I was afraid to touch her again, but I stood there some moments, feeling the animals, calming.

When I finally walked back, Paul was on the porch, waiting. I didn’t want to be glad, but I was. For the first time in days, we lay down together — rolled away from each other but together. Michael flitted through me, his artificial kisses I had mistaken for “delicate” stuck together with Velvet trying to call me about her murdered friend, stuck together with the hot-point past where my “self” was crushed into a ball like old aluminum, and I didn’t even know what was happening to Michael. My husband lay next to me, blinking loud enough for me to hear.