Sure

by Sean Lovelace

I walked out of the doctor’s office and there she was, on the wet sidewalk (it was drizzling, spongy clouds, the pungency of concrete, etc.), holding the reins of a tall, gray horse. I froze. I hadn’t seen her in four years. My God, what she had done to my life. Imagine exploding glass, imagine gasoline and flames. I can’t even tell you the agony, the senseless pain, the waste. (For example, I once sold a share in a profitable Laundromat to purchase several thousand weather balloons for her latest artistic “project.”) And now look at her, standing in the rain, with a horse of all things. She was wearing yellow boots. A very bright yellow, almost neon, wet with droplets. They seemed to hold a shine, perhaps embedded with some glittering alloy, or perhaps lacquered with a honeyed, metallic sheen. Constructed of rubber. Or some futuristic plastic, some tight, taut, indestructible polymer: I couldn’t exactly say. A bright silver zipper ran up each boot like a serrated blade. These boots must have stood three feet tall. They glowed as if lit from within. Like molten shards, like lightning bolts. They seemed to float, each boot hovering inches above the flickering feet of others, flashing off passing cars, sucking up headlamps, the signs, the lights in window glass, the shouts and laughter and blaring horns, the very energy of the street. Too yellow, really; the boots had me blinking, squinting. The heels shone black. She swiveled on them and lifted her chin. Then shook the rain from her hair, petted the horse on its enormous head, and walked it right over. It smelled dark and rich, like a pile of wet leaves. Its eye looked like a hand mirror. “Nice horse,” I stammered, taking a step back. (Honestly, I am somewhat frightened of horses.) “It really is,” she answered with a quick smile. “Its name is Floyd. I am going to teach him to play piano. Want to help?”