Anonymous said...
Sometimes, in the late evening, usually when twilight was just beginning to cast its eerie veil over the day, I would hear the clatter of hooves outside, a sharp sound like flint against rock, and I would look out the upstairs window, down to the street below.
At first, I was surprised to see the roof of the ornate black carriage, the coachman with his top-hat and the spirited horses straining against the reins, their delicate heads decorated with black plumes.
I added...
The Coachman never looked up, and if the horses sensed my presence, they never showed it, but continued to prance in place, anxious to be off on their errand. These times, I did not need to turn away, for as I gazed down at the carriage and the cobbled street below, with the tall gas-lit street lamps glowing feebly in the twilight, it would be as if someone had suddenly turned a page, or a theatre scrim had been dropped over the scene, for in less than a blink of an eye, the carriage would disappear, and the street would be replaced by the familiar asphalt road with cars parked bumper to bumper along its sides, the electric street lamps just beginning to shine.
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