Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

“I have found my calling in life,” I explain with mock seriousness. “I have finally discovered the one thing I excel at—” “Shoveling horse dung?” “Quite,” I say loftily. “As a Horse, I cannot expect you to understand.” “Mmm.” “In the first place, horse dung is far superior to goose dung, being of larger size. In the second, it is of greater import, being of significantly magnified stench. In the third,” I break off as Falada butts me with his head. “Hey!” “Spare me, O Lady of the Shovel.” “Don’t forget the pitchfork,” I reply tartly.

“Thorn. Of all the dangerous ways I could die that I meet with every day, I would much rather choose to die from helping someone. Weigh it,” she says, holding her hands up in an imaginary scale. “Die helping someone, get kicked against a wall. Hmm, what would you prefer?”

“I have no doubt of it,” I say, because I cannot yet tell him I love him, because we need more time without games and deceit between us to find such love.