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Wish

The other day, I stopped to watch a sexy woman teaching horseback riding lessons. She was coaching little Teddy on his posting and rein control and how to ask the horse to do what you want. The horse looked like the owner had taken it to a beauty salon in Chelsea for an expensive perm. But this wasn’t New York or London. The owner clearly prioritized appearance overall, because the horse kept fucking up what little Teddy asked it to do. The hairs stuck straight up and bobbed side-to-side as the horse pranced around the corral, waving its mane and swishing its tail. I mean, his tail. It was manifest. I had dressed myself carefully and expensively to attract the sexy woman, and it seemed she was taking the bait. As I watched her teaching little Teddy how to canter, an older lady came over and stood next to me. “Is he yours?” she asked. “Oh no, I’m just here to watch her,” I said, then added, “I wish. He’s beautiful.” The lady made no reply and left. A guy in a suit and sunglasses came over and casually sat down next to me. We chatted for a while about things—work, stress, sexuality, life after death. Writing this, now, I realize she was referring to Teddy.

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