Little My Rainbow

       The post-lunch sun hung heavy over the valley when Little My finally tracked down her prey. Not both of them, as she’d hoped—just Snorkmaiden, hunched beneath the willows by the brook. The usually pristine creature sat in disarray, her fur dull as tarnished silver in the dappled shade. With methodical spite, she plucked emerald leaves and flung them into the current, where they spun like discarded love letters. "What," Little My drawled, plopping onto the moss, "did you tell him his poetry was tripe, and he wailed something about ‘art coming from the heart’ before running off?" Snorkmaiden’s ear twitched. "Thrilled you’re enjoying this, My." A leaf tore with unnecessary violence. "No. I broke up with him. Properly." "Over saccharine sonnets?" "No." A pause. The brook gurgled mockingly. "But they were the last straw." Little My scratched her ear, considering. The valley hummed with cicadas; somewhere upstream, a fish broke the surface with a wet plop. "Why the long face, then? Rejoice! No more treacly verses. Let him sulk. And why hasn’t the great oaf crawled back begging forgiveness?" "It’s not the poems, My!" Snorkmaiden’s voice cracked. "Not the style, at least. Yes, they are banal. They’re always banal! But these—" She crushed a fistful of foliage. "They weren’t written for me. He recycled them. From someone else!" Little My’s smirk faltered. She recalled snippets of that ode—vague, flowery sappiness. No wonder that even the Fillyjonk had once thought that a similar poem draft carried away by the wind had been addressed to her. But wait, hadn't there been a specific line? "Your hazel eyes, of sunshine made, most…" She wracked her brain. "…something I have seen?" "Most marvellous I’ve seen," Snorkmaiden corrected icily. “Yep. Exactly. And when was the last time you looked in a mirror? I assure you still have them hazel.” "Followed by They sparkle bright beneath the shade of emerald and green." Another leaf shredded between her fingers. "And you know who else in this valley has hazel eyes? Who lounges about in emerald shadows?" "Hmm." Little My feigned ignorance, though the answer loomed as large as the absent vagabond himself. And a bit of teasing never hurt. "You, when you’re canoodling with Moomintroll in the ferns? Or Moominpappa fixing the lampshade? Or seasick Sniff?" A growl. Snorkmaiden’s usually sunny eyes flashed thunderstorm-dark. "You know who!" "Pfft!" Little My waved a paw. "As if it's the first time! He gets these yearly fits over Snufkin—then comes slinking back to you with daisies and dreadful alliteration. Bleurgh." "Yes! Every. Bloody. Year!" Snorkmaiden surged to her feet, voice wavering. "In spring, when that—that tramp deigns to appear! But it’s already freakin’ July, My! And they’re still—" She choked. "I waited. Thought he’d come crawling. He didn’t. So I went to see why. And there they were. On the riverbank. Laughing." Her knees hit the moss with a soft thud. "Oh, girl." My’s usual glee curdled to something sour. "You’re a mess. Guess that’s what folks call jealousy. So you’re still in love with the oaf. Fine. Sob. Or whatever your romance novels prescribe. I'm not an expert." She stood abruptly, brushing off her dress. "Better yet—let’s go swim to the sea. Sod the lot of ’em." She marched seaward, the grass and pebbles crunching rebelliously underfoot. Odd, this—no glee in another’s misery. Just a strange, simmering anger, bubbling like tar in her chest.