Over the Hills and Far AwayCati Porter
So a man and a woman stand on the crest of a hill, surrounded by a hall of mirrors. So a woman and a man stand on the crest of a hill, hounded by the call of mirrors. The man turns to his reflection and says, "I'm tired." The woman turns to her reflection and says, "I’m tired, too." And then the man and the woman turn away from reflection, toward themselves, to say, "We’re tired," walk back to their separate cars, drive off into the land of what will be, away from the ocean of never again, through a wall and several glass houses and a blue horse that was galloping toward them until their tires went kathunk-kathunk over its abdomen, their cars glinting in the heat as they rolled down twin hillsides separated by a dozen or so states a few hundred lakes and countless pastures where similarly blue horses roam. At last the woman’s reflection turns toward the man’s and says, "Let's go home." Finally the man’s reflection turns toward the woman’s and says, "But we are." Each takes the other’s hand into their own and walks off, backs toward the sun, never-minding what had become of them, what had become undone.
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