His entrance à cheval suggested a
certain familiarity with romance novels. Had he also donned a blonde
wig and clutched a tub of butter-alternative, his beloved would have
likely fled his overzealousness; but today love drew her forward.
Twelve suns would rise and fall
before the mounted hopeless romantic would learn that his equine
companion had, in that moment, usurped the heart of the only woman he
would ever love.
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