The stallions tip-toed down the hallway. A trail of unspoken whispers following closely. I once fell in love with a limp stallion. Limp in spirit. He should have been shot, put out of his misery. Instead I was shot out of my happiness.
"You'll do it again" she whispered. Often she sat in a daze of solemnity. After her solitary revery, she slipped off her chair, inspired to face the hazy crowd of silly laugh-heads and seedy stool pigeons. At the thought of the long walk ahead, she began to yearn for her crisp and lovely friend.
Blindly following them down the street—her thoughts wandered. Before long she had traipsed all the way to their destination, dirty glances, whispers and all. The gossip swirled around in her head—waiting to be retold or bottled up for a later dose of guilt. Her sordid love affairs would now be played out in her head—projected repeatedly and frequently.
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