One day I found out that magic isn’t real. The rabbit was already in the hat. The lady’s legs were scrunched up in the box. Since, then I have never been the same. There have been some men. Charlie, who left his handprints on me didn’t stay to watch them fade away, and Tim, who raised me right off the ground. There I was, hovering mid-air, straight as the horizon, when he leaves the room to take a call and never comes back. “The levitation felt so real,” I said to the fireman I called to help me down. “Miss,” he said, shaking his firehat head, “You never left the ground.”
There were other times. Interlocking hearts and believing that only my soulmate would know which card was mine.
These days, when I meet a man, I look up his sleeves, check behind his ears. Is he hiding a wife, I want to know. A gambling habit, perhaps. Is his closed hand really holding the love that seemed to disappear?