The Contest

He whinnied at her, rearing into the air with clenched fists for hooves. She cackled, a witch’s mean, mocking cackle. He whistled, sweet and low. She rat-tat-tatted like a bebe gun on the loose. He sighed, audibly and pitifully enough to turn even the cranky barista’s head. She giggled like a little girl divulging the latest gossip by the lockers. He scoffed at her with his nose turned so high up that she could see the bogies clinging to his brown nose hair. She snorted. He snorted back. She kissed his nose, twizzling and tickling. He laughed. She smiled. Touché.