How to Assist a Magician
I.
Some of our smiles are six and some are seven. All our jaws are open, elbows and knees isosceles splayed on the mowed lawn at Katie’s. Today Katie turns seven. The magician is fake, but we’re not sure about the girl who climbed in the box and got locked inside. He saws her in half and separates the box in two. Her toes wiggle at his command, we “ooh!”
Teeth no longer attached to feet smile down at them. The magician is fake. We know. Some of us are seven. But we are not convinced she is safe, just relieved she felt nothing. If he ushers the boxes back together, if he waves his wand, and commands her to stand, if she does, it's proof. What else would a severed spine do?
II.
I drink warm white wine at the Louvre, improved when you drop ice cubes in my glass. You’ve already seen her. She is smaller than I think and not worth the wait. The waiter comes over, “More wine, madame?”
“Oui!” I say.
Your elbow slides across the table, and you put your hand on top of mine. "It’s not quite pronounced that way.”
The trick is her smile.
Tourists, maps of Paris refolded against the seams and tucked in their midsections, line up to see the Mona Lisa. They are going to be disappointed by how small she is.
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