Rudeness was the only thing running with the horse. No contest here, no being pushed to the rail. Instead, cameras were pulled from pockets and purses. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Except for Richard Jury’s, not because he was more polite but because his phone, as usual, was powerless.

How wonderful! he thought. Here we poor sods go through our lives being crammed and crowded, passed up and galloped by, pushed and prodded, whipped and pounded on, but then there’s that kiss. A kiss that’s always there, and if not right here, then in some otherwhere, galloping alone in the middle of the track, pounding down the earth, running uncontested, churning up the surface, flying for the finish—

That kiss was a walkover.

And wonderfully, Aggrieved won.

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