Vanities

One night Mirella could not sleep. She tossed and turned and finally got out of bed. She went out to the courtyard in her nightgown. The night air cooled her face and smelled sweetly of the nearby meadow. She walked to the stables. Halfway there she realized she was barefoot. She smiled. No worries. Her smile lingered. She chose the red pony, Rodolfo. She smoothed his mane and cooed to him. He nickered. She bridled him and took him out to the meadow.

They rode over the sighing grasses and flowers, the candelabra of the sky illuminating their way. “That a-boy,” she said to Rodolfo. He smoothly trotted around the meadow. They rode past the fragrant orange tree and the red rooster Antonio, patrolling his perimeter. “Hallo, Antonio!” Mirella cried. “Hallo!” Antonio paid her no heed, bobbing his flared red head and poking about the chicken wire fence. Weasels lurked. Antonio made quick dispatch of weasels when he managed to run them down or root them out of their holes and hiding places. Mirella admired Antonio, but at the same time she thought he would make a good soup when his life ended. It was well known that old roosters made the best soup.

Rodolfo galloped around the meadow, kicking up grasses and little blue flowers. Mirella let the pony do all the work, making herself light on him, softly squeezing together her thighs and gently holding the reins. She made chucking sounds, but more out of habit than because they were necessary. This was a lovely moment she would not soon forget. Moments like this defined a good life, made for fond memories. Glassy-eyed and panting rhythmically, Rodolfo trotted smoothly without once breaking gait. They rode past the orange tree again and Mirella opened her nostrils and sighed.

They rode past the dusky villa where votary candles flickered in the cut glass windows. Others were awake. What would they say if they knew she was out there? Nothing good. Mirella pulled the reins right. Rodolfo leaned and turned away from the villa. Once again they rode past the orange tree and Antonio the rooster. Antonio disregarded them.

Mirella’s nightgown trailed behind her, merging with Rodolfo’s tail. His hooves thudded over the meadow. In the interplay of shadows, starlight, and candlelight from the villa, Mirella looked like she was on fire. Indeed she felt her body heating up as they continued circling the meadow. Rodolfo was sweating now, his chest heaving.

“I’m burning up,” Mirella thought. She glanced at her nightgown and screamed.

At this moment Antonio turned his beady but fierce gaze to Mirella and Rodolfo. He made a soft clucking sound. Mirella was screaming and shaking her head as they trotted around. What was the problem now? Always something with that human. Last week she fell into the well. Likely trying to gaze at her own reflection. Humans were vain that way. He felt bad for Rodolfo, the red pony. But not too bad. He had seen the pony gazing at his own reflection in the trough. He was guilty of vanity, too. And he wasn’t really red, in Antonio’s opinion. More like a maroon. I’m red, he thought, bobbing his head. I’m bloody red.