The Twins

It was nearly closing time at the estate sale in Cranston, and I had already made one trip to the car. I was tired. Satisfied. Ready to call it. But as I passed a narrow hallway off the main room, I caught a glimpse of what looked like... ears? Not animal ears, not exactly. Sculpted ones. Two of them. Matching.

The horse busts were resting on a narrow console, covered in dust and tucked between some gaudy candlesticks and a very confused lamp. At first glance, they were kitsch. At second, kind of mesmerizing.

They’re heavy—brutalist and vaguely regal, like someone made them during a stormy winter in 1970s France while listening to Bowie. The finish was scratched in that perfect way that only real age can do. Their gazes didn’t match, which I loved even more. Asymmetry keeps a room alive.

I lugged them to the front myself and nearly dropped one on the stairs. The woman ringing me out said, “You sure about those?” I said, “I think they’re already mine.”

And now? They sit on my hallway dresser like they’ve always lived there—guardians of weird taste and good instinct.