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I relax, enjoying the serene moment, the gentle pressure along my spine and muscles as he grooms me with exorbitant skill, and I resist the urge to lean into him as my muscles go slack and soft, reverting from the usual tautness and pulled tightness. It is these little, idle moments in life I hold dear to me, so long and yet so pitifully short, graceful and beautiful, where everything around me is no longer gently blurred by time and worries and the problems of a worried mind, but so sharp and neat, sparkling like diamonds even despite the dimming lighting as the clouds above continue their imperious march. Sometimes I wish I could toss out the bad and hold these precious seconds close to my heart. But I cannot, for the bad times define us. They characterize us by the way we handle them. One can only truly see another's real personality in the moments were all seems hopeless and futile; and without the bad, in any case, there would be no good times without the contrasting emotions.
I feel the stallion pull away from me and for a moment some part of me wants to go chasing after him and continuing the precious bonding ritual more instinct than mere thought. But I refrain, and instead smile lightly at his handsome face. Closer now, I see less of the primitive monster and more of the civilization. My vision I narrow, to seeing his face and strength, the windcatcher strewn between his powerful antlers. I wonder if he is naturally a hybrid, or if they are not; somehow they don't seem quite like they grew from his skull. Then again, I have seen few stags in my life, so they are quite likely to be real. The snake I vaguely noticed earlier I take sharper note of now; a coiled white slippery thing, with dark eyes on a pale face. Just the look of the snake looks quite lethal, and I reject the feeling to shudder, even when my skin crawls. I shift my gaze downwards, to his eyes, and let a warm smile appear on my face, finding myself mildly surprised to enjoy his company so.
My initial sense of his... more simple-mindedness appears true when he grunts his words like a rather ungainly, wiry-haired boar, and I feel it necessary to introduce myself. However, my name is long, and while elegant, I feel he might just accidently butcher it trying to pronounce it. Yet in any case, I should give him the chance. But first, I should let him say what presses on his mind, and I avoid the insistent pull on my mouth to laugh gently when he pronouces me tall and others short. Yet without sarcasm, for I have no desire to hurt his feelings, I say, "I'm tall. You're taller." I pause, inhale, and exhale, and move on, not commenting on the rain even when I notice the first drops beginning to fall. "I am Andromeda. An-dro-med-a." I enunciate the syllables carefully, and wait patiently for it he tries to repeat it back.
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[O] soldiers lined up like knives in a cutlery drawer [gaucho]
