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, "Iâ€™m tired, too." And then the man and the woman turn away from reflection, toward themselves, to say, "Weâ€™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 womanâ€™s reflection turns toward the manâ€™s and says, "Let's go home." Finally the manâ€™s reflection turns toward the womanâ€™s and says, "But we are." Each takes the otherâ€™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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