My
big brother’s #1 rule for dealing with women: stay the fuck away
from girls who are really into horses.
But
she’s so pretty, I think, as she rambles on and on about Snow Shoe,
her tender loving horse. Pretty in a screwed up kinda way, like
Victoria’s Secret underwear hugging that precious little puss and
delicate little self-mutilation scars running up her inner thighs.
Anyway, I’d put money on it. I know the type. Snow Shoe,
apparently, has saved her from committing suicide, from running away,
from murdering her rich parents in their sleep. What a horse...
What
a crazy fucking girl! She runs out for a smoke every ten minutes, but
it only takes her thirty seconds to finish one. And what do I do? I
sit here and wait. I buy her another beer when her pint glass gets
empty. I listen to Snow Shoe story after Snow Shoe story, hoping I
get to find out if I’m right about the underwear. And the scars.