Omen sees the hope flicker in the young mare’s eyes and wishes he hadn’t. It dies abruptly, and the chocolate stallion is reminded of his shortcomings — the absolutely nothing he can offer her, not even a polite word, apparently — with shameful finality. His ego had sparked to life, inflated, and burst all in one fell swoop.
He doesn’t know what he had expected from his approach, but it wasn’t this.
He feels guilty, but Omen is too selfish to acknowledge it. He’s been alone for so long that himself is really all there is to consider; there are no feelings that aren’t his own. And now he’s managed to hurt them, because he was dumb enough to meet the painted mare’s gaze as he put his foot in his mouth instead of trying to undress her with his eyes, like seasoned assholes do.
His dark ears twist back, and he narrows his amber eyes at her. He has no idea what to do about his feelings, but he’s not mature enough to resist the defensive urge to dig himself deeper. "At least I don’t talk to myself when I think no one’s listening," he retorts, betraying his uncertainty in his less-than-steely tone. He’s regretting saying anything at all; watching the young mare get swept off her feet by a far more qualified suitor would have probably hurt less than her disdain turned on him.
She’s right, of course, and Omen feels the sudden urge to backpedal; apologize, ask if he can start over, etc. But he bites his lip instead of saying anything else that might get him into trouble, or hurt his pride, or both.
Omen
hope is an anesthetic