Photo by Engin Akyurt
The Magician’s Assistant
Beth Sherman
First, he puts me in the box. I rest my head on my knees, count sparkles on my pink tulle skirt, listen to voices ripple. Soothing as Chopin’s Nocturnes. When he unlocks the box, I’ve vanished. After, in bed, we tussle and claw till I can’t tell where he begins and I leave off. Hair, sweat, teeth, holes, skin, moles, breath, a bolt slowly tightened. Lovely, he says. He has cut me in half, shot arrows into an apple on my head, hurled knives beneath my armpits. Applause is an aphrodisiac, he says. Spell aphrodisiac. And I do, correctly. He swallows my words whole, the blade disappearing down his throat so easily, you’d think it was champagne. His mouth a hot cherry sundae, melting. He is a meadow of wildflowers staggering in the breeze, the ocean on a storm-drunk day. A whisper no one else can hear. A song in the bluesy floozy night. He shuffles a deck of cards expertly and they fly through the air. Pick one. Queen of Diamonds. Put it back. Into the deck she goes. Yet I refuse to join her. His eyes flame-heavy, preparing his next trick. Two white doves, a bag of hot coals. I want you I want. Always a spotlight carved out of darkness. I teeter in stilettos. My hair unwashed, dress stitched tight. Smile as luminous as a star. There is the box. Open, he says. I open. Get in, he says. But I’ve already decided–presto, I’m gone.
Beth Sherman
First, he puts me in the box. I rest my head on my knees, count sparkles on my pink tulle skirt, listen to voices ripple. Soothing as Chopin’s Nocturnes. When he unlocks the box, I’ve vanished. After, in bed, we tussle and claw till I can’t tell where he begins and I leave off. Hair, sweat, teeth, holes, skin, moles, breath, a bolt slowly tightened. Lovely, he says. He has cut me in half, shot arrows into an apple on my head, hurled knives beneath my armpits. Applause is an aphrodisiac, he says. Spell aphrodisiac. And I do, correctly. He swallows my words whole, the blade disappearing down his throat so easily, you’d think it was champagne. His mouth a hot cherry sundae, melting. He is a meadow of wildflowers staggering in the breeze, the ocean on a storm-drunk day. A whisper no one else can hear. A song in the bluesy floozy night. He shuffles a deck of cards expertly and they fly through the air. Pick one. Queen of Diamonds. Put it back. Into the deck she goes. Yet I refuse to join her. His eyes flame-heavy, preparing his next trick. Two white doves, a bag of hot coals. I want you I want. Always a spotlight carved out of darkness. I teeter in stilettos. My hair unwashed, dress stitched tight. Smile as luminous as a star. There is the box. Open, he says. I open. Get in, he says. But I’ve already decided–presto, I’m gone.