e n c a n t a d o r
“You lived here?”
The surprise registers on his face as Encantador stares straight at her, brown eyes wide and velvet lips hanging open. His shoulder-rest is forgotten; he stands up straight now, away from the boulder, all four striped legs long and stiff as they hold him upright like pillars. For a few moments there is only the sound of a vulture crying far overhead. Did she tell me this before? For the life of me, I cannot remember.
Suddenly aware that he must look a fool, the stallion presses his lips together and attempts to collect himself. “I mean, that’s… wow. Is it strange being back?” More like it’s strange that I live in her childhood home while she lives in mine, he thinks to himself, having rationally assumed that his acquaintance still resides in the harbor.
He decides to broach the subject, but takes a moment first to clear his throat, not wanting his true intentions to show. “Are you still living in the harbor, Sylvia?”
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
|