Pepsi was a jellyfish horse, but he had no idea. That dreadful morning when everything fell apart, it never crossed his mind that his actions would sting Tara. He simply did what he always did: he followed his stomach. So when the two women stood in his pasture, twenty feet or so apart, the older one, Anne, with desperation in her eyes and Tara with alarm, he walked up to Tara because he knew she carried treats in her pocket. When she stroked his neck, hugged his ample body, and fed him the pellets, he had no idea it was the last time he’d ever see her.

Their words floated through his head, without consequence, without meaning.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Tara urged, her voice panic-struck. “He didn’t mean it like that. He’s just hungry.”

“No, Tara,” Anne countered, a sting of something he couldn’t comprehend in her voice. “He likes you more. You should take credit for it.”

As Anne walked off, Pepsi noticed that her frame looked more square than usual. The pellets tasted like alfalfa.

Tara placed a saddle on his back. Anne took it off.

“I was going to use that one,” she said. She put it on the other horse.

On the trail, Tara let go of the reins and let Pepsi look around at the wilderness surrounding them. He felt like the king of his territory.

“Shorten your reins,” Anne snapped.

Pepsi felt pressure in his mouth and in his side, and collected himself. His muscles started to work. They were dancing.

“Not that short,” Anne said.

At the bottom of a hill, Anne suggested a canter. Pepsi, feeling the passion and joy from his rider, stretched out and ran the fastest he could, the warm breeze blowing his mane all over the place. He was one with the world around him.

“Slow down!” Anne shouted from behind.

Tara once again collected him and the canter turned slow; heavy. Anne passed them on her horse.

When they returned to the barn, Anne told Tara she had put the wrong saddle on Pepsi.

“His back might be hurt,” she said.

“But you wanted to use the other—“

Anne’s eyes were hard, Tara’s wet with built up tears.

“I don’t think you should ride him for a while,” Anne said. “I will work him on the ground.”

“I’ll do it, don’t worry—“

“I’m better at it. In fact, I’ll take him right now. You two really aren’t getting along.”

She snatched the lead rope out of the Tara’s hand. Pepsi saw the red, fresh scar, but that was also the last he saw of his rider. He spent the summer in his pasture, longing to stretch out over the rolling hills and prairies. Tara spent it on the beach with her cell phone next to her, but Anne never returned her calls inquiring about him. The wound in her hand disappeared over time, but the jellyfish-like pain of Anne’s jealousy never healed.