Hold on to the horse and you’ll be alright.
They’d woken up together and opened themselves for a foundation to be poured – something she rarely did. She smoked a Marlboro as he warmed espresso, exchanging a life through her look from couch to metal oven.
Opening yourself up to be filled isn’t easy – to put yourself out there and throw out all that bullshit small talk, itself created to assuage the awkwardness of being real, jokes on jokes on jokes. They had chosen the design of a stable over a house so that they could ride through predictable things: to bolt: to trade the comfort of jogging for the rush of something real.
At times, between Marlboros, resentment, unseen while running, built up walls.
She had opened herself to become real, but feared of becoming a pedestrian.
Sometimes, said her friend, you just have to hold on.
It seemed that…
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