The pangs, they came in succession, but even those, that pain, was a reminder of something better, something she hadn’t known she yearned for until it was staring her in the face. Elena at work, who had first been so in awe of the transformation, now seemed distrustful, saw the way Odilie went out for a cigarette instead of sharing their morning pastries like they used to. But Odilie knew she wouldn’t say anything, knew that she was safe from any real critique by her colleague. She looked too good now for that.

And besides, Peri never forced her into it, never told her she needed to be more angular, that she looked better with visible bones. This was all Odilie’s doing, all of her will and discipline and gumption. Letting her body rot with nicotine and drugs to welcome concavities between her ribs.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of walking, Odilie reached the pen where the ponies were roaming. From far away, it had seemed like they were freely trotting about, but this made more sense: there was metal fencing enclosing them, a little barn off to the side to house them.

They were so beautiful up close in the moonlight, blond and shiny like a child’s toy, some of their tails and manes braided or adorned with bows. She reached out her hand to one and it moved gracefully forward, nuzzling her fingers. She wondered how they were so nocturnal, if their wakefulness at this hour was just for the party or if night ponies existed, solely for show, who could be dutifully awakened at any hour of the evening.

“They’re for his kids,” said a voice to her right as she continued to stroke the silky nose of the animal, her shoes and champagne flute still clutched in her left hand. She whipped her head around and a saw a man in the shadows, around the other side of the fencing, forearms flush against the enclosure.

“His little girls wanted ponies. I think they’ve outgrown that stage, but he keeps them around to show off. They’re some rare breed, I guess. I’m not really up-to-date on my pony knowledge, unfortunately.” Silhouetted by the moonlight, he stepped closer to her.

“You’re Peri’s boyfriend,” Odilie stuttered out. She recognized him instantly, the classically handsome face and chiseled jaw, the ease with which he carried himself, so like Peri. What was he doing out here, away from the party?

“That I am,” he said in response and extended his arm. “Tom. Tom Newburn.” And before she could say her own name, “You’re Odilie.” He studied her, a puzzling expression on his face, not unlike a smirk, but softer. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Odilie found herself saying, almost coquettishly.