“You’re really pretty,” I hear myself say, completely unbidden. “Like my horse.” Marcos gives me a flat, incredulous look, which I deserve. Why the flying fuck did I just say that? I rush to talk, desperate to keep those dark eyes on mine. “I own horses. They’re really beautiful,” I tell him, leaning down a little bit so I don’t have to shout. And then, because bad can always get worse, I add, “I like to look at them.”
