This must be my lucky day, I thought.
The first horseman came with a gift—one of those tchotchkes you put on a shelf and then forget about until you have to dust it. The second horseman came with a great sense of urgency but with no clear object to his urgency. He was just urgent, like a man responding to a false alarm.
He left me with a chaotic, unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if there were somewhere I had to go, some appointment I had to keep, but as far as I could tell, there wasn't.
Later on, toward evening, a couple of girlfriends stopped over and we drank warm cider on the porch. It was autumn and the vines on the back fence were squeezing out the very last of their fruits, like paint from drying tubes.
The night was chilly, things were dying, and soon we'd be flying in silhouette across the moon.
We raised our glasses, toasting ourselves, and celebrating our greatest success. We've cast the entire world under a spell. No one believes in us anymore.
When we catch the scent of bonfires in the crisp air, we feel no more than a bittersweet nostalgia, a delicious coziness. We hunker down and gather our hand-knit ruanas about us like wings. There's no fear anymore.
All considered, our lives could not have worked out better.
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