We saw a good show, him and I. He paid for my ticket, and I watched him watch the glitter on stage. We could do that, he whispered under his breath. We could do that better, I leaned in.

A grin tore through his face. My cheeks got hot. Amateurs with god complexes, nothing more.

I slipped on my sparkliest dress, he put on satin gloves, and with the click clacking of shiny shoes across the stage, we began. No rehearsals.

Pick a card, any card, he prompted. I showed the audience my random selection: the joker that wasn’t even supposed to be in the deck. The cards were too slick, and they slipped right out of his hands.

For our next trick, he sawed me in half then hid behind the curtains. I was left alone to fumble through crowd work. In pieces, I asked where the audience was from and said some schtick about Tulsa.

Off-stage, he searched for a white rabbit in his hat. It didn’t want to come out, or it ran away, or maybe we never actually got one in the first place.

The show didn’t have a finale, the spectators just trickled out over time, knowing they could have done it too. Better even. But we all love illusions.

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