Nights spent in the company of drunks were far more tiresome than even she had expected. There were only so many drinks to spit in, so many filthy hands and faces to slap. It became repetitive. A night off, no matter how frequent she chose to make them, was always welcome.
She chose to spend it wandering around the village. The sun was going down, and people were filtering off the streets and into their homes, where they would dine with their families and bask in the warmth of company. Oh, how she envied them. Once the streets were clear, she'd skulk around in the shadows like a creature of nightmares, peeking in on them; desperately imagining the joy they must feel.
Once the streets were clear, that was. A man and his horse returned from the fields, seemingly in no hurry to make themselves scarce. As they appoached, she reached out to rub a hand over the steed's great, warm muzzle. Horses, they were gentlemen. For more than any man could ever claim to be. And with that thought fresh on her mind, she finally moved her gaze over to the horses' master. As if anyone but a man would consider themselves master over another.
Oh, but this man did. Just look at him. So sure of his own importance. "Good evening, handsome."
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