Sweater for Stalls

Libby knows little of unrequited envies. She’ll never accept the lesser dessert, choosing smiles and pleas to win the most symmetrical, chocolate drizzled, plump chocolate nut roll. We oblige her always, spoil her, because we know she will get triple the enjoyment from it than either Sarah or I are capable of. Not always this lenient, Sarah sometimes capitalizes on Libby’s irrational desires. Agreements are drawn up: one black quarter-zip North Face sweater in exchange for Libby’s soul and lifelong labor. The sweater, threadbare, is worn into oblivion. And the horse stalls are always clean, but never by Sarah’s pitchfork.