the horse collector
The horse collector lives at the end of the street. He only pulls the curtains back on Tuesdays, from half-past seven in the morning until half-past four in the afternoon.
The horses in the windows are different each week. Different colors, different poses, different sizes.
It’s been going on for years. As far as anyone can tell, each horse displayed has never been displayed before, and after its particular Tuesday, it will not be displayed again.
Sometimes the neighbors wait outside on the street to see them when the curtain opens, pretending that they just happen to be there, walking dogs or out for the morning paper, pausing in front of the horse collector’s house, terribly interested in the overgrown hedge or the cracks in the sidewalk. They don’t often talk to each other, as if they are embarrassed to admit that they are out on the street so early on a Tuesday, waiting for such a silly thing.
The day the rocking horse appeared in the window, one of the waiting neighbors couldn’t help but giggle, and another smiled back, and they discussed the horses for awhile.
Somewhere during the conversation, they realized that no one had ever seen the horse collector himself.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
