She whinnied and nodded her head. "Yes you are. I'm going to pet you and nuzzle you and take you home. I have a ball of fur just vibrating with energy that would love to meet you."
I realized at that moment that there was a girl in the next stall.
"Misty," she said, talking softly as I kissed the horse's nose, "I think the lady in the stall next to me is talking to her vagina."
I sucked in a horrified breath. "Did you hear that? She called you a vagina. That's just wrong. So, so wrong."
She nodded in agreement again, huffing out a puff of air as though disgusted. She was absolutely adorable. And she was my first departed horse.
"Okay, I have to pull up my pants now." Standing in a tiny stall in which a horse was taking up the majority of the room was easier said than done. I finally got my jeans fastened and opened the door, where I came face-to-face with, you guessed it, a headless horseman.
My gaze rocketed past black riding boots, black pants, and a billowing black cloak to the rider's face. Or where his face should have been. The space above the collar where one usually finds a head sat empty.
I screamed and fell back. The horse reared up then retreated a few precious steps. It was enough for me to scramble past and run for my life. I sprinted through the gift shop and out the front door, asking no one in particular, "Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?"
The headless horseman didn't follow, thank God. I slowed my steps as I descended the outside stairs and forced myself to calm down. Glancing back every few seconds, I went to the car, a coppery crossover, to wait for Cookie.
"There you are," she said when she found me. "You seriously need a phone. I thought you were still inside."
"Nope." I shifted my weight from foot to foot waiting for her to unlock the doors. She did so, and I practically dived inside.
"You okay, hon?" she asked when she climbed in.
"Yep."
She really needed to hurry.
"Okay. Oh, did you hear a scream?"
"No. Someone screamed? That's weird."
"Yes, it is." Her tone was full of suspicion.
"I say we go somewhere far away to eat. Like Manhattan."
After a giggle, she started the car and backed out. "That would take a while. How about we go somewhere in Tarrytown?"
"Okay."
We talked all the way to the restaurant, which was a quaint little hole-in-the-wall with amazing food. We'd discovered it by accident one day while shopping for flip-flops. In the snow.
"So," she said to me, growing serious, "you gonna tell me what happened back there?"
I'd wanted to spend the afternoon with her, to tell her all my dirty secrets, but how could I do that to her? How could I introduce the world that I can see to someone who can't and then expect that person to be unchanged? Unaffected? Not that she'd believe me.
Even with all that, I'd started suspecting a few things myself. I bought the whole story about her friend Charley and how she disappeared, but I still felt like she was holding something back. Like she knew more than she was letting on. And if my suspicions were right, I was about to get a lot of answers.
There was one surefire way to get those answers: the threat of physical violence.
"I'll tell you what," I said, opting for negotiations first. If those didn't work, then violence. "I'll tell you everything if you'll reciprocate."
Anxiety spiked inside her, but she pasted on a bright smile and said, "What do you mean?"
I leaned closer. "You know something. About me. I can tell."
"What?" She smoothed her napkin on the table. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do." I raised my butter knife. "I will cut a bitch," I said through gritted teeth.
She gasped. Slammed a hand to her chest. Heaved her bosom. "No, please. I swear I don't know anything."
Damn it. I let out a lengthy sigh of disappointment. "You're not even scared."
"Yes, I am," she assured me with a nod.
"Oh my God, you're not." I dropped the knife on the table. "You aren't even remotely scared."
She hesitated. Chewed on her bottom lip. "Sure I am."
"You are, like, the worst actress."
She lowered her head in shame. "I am. I'm horrible. Always was. I once got booed off stage."
"Broadway?"
"Kindergarten."
"Goodness. That's … harsh."
"No, it was bad. My agent had to let me go."
"You had an agent? In kindergarten?"