I can still see my friend.
He was, I believe, a gay man. This was the late eighties. I hope he is okay.
I imagine him out on his mount enjoying the better riding trails in the moneyed section of Houston, Texas. The temperature is in the mid-nineties and he is in a starched shirt, red wool jacket, and knee-length boots.
I am all of twenty-five and a perfect creep.
He assures me it is not as insufferably hot as you might think, in these jodhpurs.
I just smile.
FOX HUNTING.
