He was the best trick of all; precious and incredible like a shiny, black top hat that swallows the white rabbit gently, and with ease.
Fragile, yet so strong when it came to a face off with the stage. He was not real of course, and he disappeared, leaving a space in my heart like one of those matchboxes already empty with nothing inside to slide against the striker. So that you might, at the bare minimum, warm yourself up if only for a split second before the fire burns out.
His watch was always perfectly placed on his wrist, his trouser folds in the right place, his shirt perfectly ironed, with well-fastened, tight shoes so as to never stumble. Then there was his bag of tricks with a top handle he gripped firmly with his right hand. There was also a big, hairy triangle on his head.
He was my sad dream and my happy nightmare flavored with the fragrance of white grapes. A mirage who surprises you in the desert when your tongue is heavy like a stone and your saliva can’t even form anymore for substitute hydration. But then, neither can tears in your eyes.
He was MAG*C.
But there always comes the time for the woman of the moment to leave his box of illusion so that she can escape without any grave knife scars, for the dove to return to his cage, for the cards to be placed back in their solitaire arrangement, to wait for the red heavy curtain to close.
And you must never forget to clap your hands at the end because every performance deserves some sort of gratification or, at least, encouragement.