For long moments I stood by myself, away from
the other ponies. One of them—a woman younger than me—kept taking
high, exaggerated steps whenever she moved. Her tack looked
custom-made—across her breastplate, the name Pretty Marie
was embossed into the leather. Every now and then, she whinnied
like a little girl playing horse. Turning my back to our guardian
with the clipboard, I leaned down over Marie’s short ponytails and
murmured, “So you’re really into this, aren’t you?”
The look she gave me could’ve cut glass. Two
high steps took her away from me, but I pushed around another pony
to keep beside her. “No, really,” I said softly. “Don’t worry—I’m
not hitting on you. I’m gay.”
She made an annoyed sound in the back of her
throat and tried to move away again. When I followed, s
