“I know you are, Maggie. Will you walk with me to see the horse statue?”
Colin shook his head. “Not Soapsuds and Will Rogers, but the horse.”
“The Masked Rider by the stadium? I’ve seen it, too, and I’m getting cold.”
I nodded silently, and he motioned for me to go north out of the courtyard area, around the old silo next to the Dairy Barn. I complied and he walked next to me, careful to leave at least a foot of open space between us.
The bulls, I knew, were the enormous bronze figures in front of the Animal and Food Sciences Building at the west end of campus. Each year at graduation, students fashion huge mortar boards and place them on the bulls’ heads. They were favorites ofmine because of their playfulness and satirical laziness — both bulls were nonchalantly resting, legs seemingly tucked up beneath their massive bodies. I imagined they looked wonderful today, covered in snow.
He blushed and I thought perhaps he’d done just that. Embarrassed for my childish ridicule of him, I quickly asked, “Who’s the artist?”