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, she stuck ou
