And it's full of sweaty, tightly dressed men dancing to Perfume Genius. The horse walks over to the bar.
"ID?" goes the bartender.
The horse doesn't have one. It doesn't even understand what the bartender is trying to do, doesn't understand the concepts of an occupation or monetary exchange. The horse sweats, shakes its head slightly, starts to walk away from the bar over the beer-stained floor.
A kind young man strolls over.
"Lost?" he says, stroking the horse's mane.
Horse knows it has been addressed, doesn't respond.
"Wait, it's friendly!" says the young man. "Let's get selfies with it!"
The young men dance over, pull out their cell phones, begin taking selfie videos with the nervous horse in the bar. The waft of stale alcohol rises out of the floor as dozens of aggressive masculine perfumes clash in the air. Human and horse sweat mingle with the odor, and underneath it all runs a repulsive, electronic metallic scent of overworked phone batteries and camera flashlights.
One of these photos will be shipped overseas, get tossed in a pile of images selected at random by large corporations and magazines to sell products, and be dragged out by a bored Montale executive who, by some miracle, slaps the horsehead on a bottle of perfume that smells exactly like that horrifying bar night so many horse moons ago.
