The Mare

Paul

Edie came over that afternoon. Velvet was shy and sweet around her and Edie was nice in a way that seemed unnatural to her. Not that my daughter isn’t nice; she is. But there was a subtle theatricality about her manner that, to my surprise, Velvet seemed not only to enjoy, but to match. Each seemed to know her role and to fall into it easily — though what those roles would be called wasn’t an easy thing to put a name on.

“Do you want to come to the stable with me?” asked Velvet, her voice lower and sweeter than the one I knew.

“I’d love to!” cried my daughter. And then, when Velvet was up in her room getting a sweater, Edie turned to me and said very soberly, “Dad, I am so glad you are doing this.”

“I am too, I guess,” I answered. “I just wish I knew what it was.”