Tulips

I'm back.

As she stood on the stage, an illusion of sparkling gems wavered in the too blue air as imaginary clouds rolled in. An entire storm billowed behind her, and as the audience stood in awe, a bright moon peeked over the clouds just enough to cast a blinding glimmer of light over her spectators. "The sensation felt wonderful", they would later say in love-struck sighs in the Quarterly Review, but at this moment, all was quiet.

A rippling line of pink ran through her sky, as if a lady's ribbon had gone loose in the wind, but at the end of her pink string held a flightless plane. The illusionist's wrist flicked and suddenly, the plane was high in the air, trailing a curling line of pink smoke. A gust of wind seemingly came from the west of the indoor theatre as pamphlets and handouts were ripped out of the audience's hands and made to join the plane in the air. Parallel, the papers and the plane moved side by side, until the two became indistinguishably the same. With a burst, the plane-papers shot into millions of tiny white beads. Floating down like snow, the clouds once again returned and the show was pronounced over.

The applause could be heard from the hallways of the auditorium, and, in effect, in the newspaper the next day. An elaborate picture of "Sophie the Illusionist" was printed on page twelve of her bowing, smiling at her pleased crowd with headlines such as "spectacular", "wonder filled", and "must see" almost entirely covering the interview they got with her. Which, wasn't bad for a magician.

The following day, right after our meeting, my so-called manager smirked. His hand wrapped around the news so tightly it resembled a misshapen club. Cigarette smoke curled out from his ashtray in waves around his stuffy, 4x4 of an office, making him a little more unbearable... which I honestly never knew was possible.

"So how does it feel to be a magician, huh?", he asked as I got up to leave.

I tried to muster up a glare, but I was too tired for his antics. Shrugging it off, I quickly escaped, making sure to immediately close the door behind me. It was the wrong move. His ugly, crackling laugh bounced off the faded fake potted ferns and dusty, half-opened boxes that littered the hallway outside his door. Irritated, I weaved through the cluttered confines of the hallway and rushed out the front door and onto the street.

I probably scared a few people passing by, but nothing could beat that first cool breath of fresh air. Shuffling around in my bag, I pulled out my leather bound notebook and leafed through my to-do list. I frowned as a small clump of snow fell off one of the rooftops and hit my shoulder. I had already finished all my chores... but I had to be forgetting something, right? 

I could always go to the bakery and get those blueberry scones I like, I thought, or I could always see if Ms.Bradford wants to go out for coffee.

I shook my head. No, Sophie. You need to go home eventually. You pay to live there for Christ's sake! 

As I walked past passerbyers towards the railway station, I tried to reason with myself. 

The more often you go, the easier it will be. Plus you're tired and all achy. Just go home, open the door and head straight for your bed. You can do this. 

I stopped and took a long, deep breath. 

I can do this.

 "'You're one of the best magicians to come out of the Norwich area. How do you feel?' Thomas McCarthy, Quarterly Review's chief editor, asked. 'Good I guess' Sophie responded humbly, 'I don't quite consider myself a magician though. I feel more like a pirate'. Later she added with a laugh, 'All I do is pluck out people's dreams...steal, steal, steal, that's all I do and then show it to my audience for a price. Sounds more like a pirate to me!'"

I read over the words for the fourth time, thoroughly regretting my nervous, spur-of-the-moment statement. Mr. McCarthy had laughed it off, but  he probably thought I was fool, or worse, a sellout. But what did he know. 

I groaned. I couldn't stand outside my apartment's front door forever.

Just go in. It's no big deal. 

Folding the newspaper under my arm, I shuffled with my keys. Just before I could talk myself out of it, the unit 3 doors down opened. My suspicious old neighbor poked her head out to look at me, causing me to instinctively unlock the door and rush inside. Reaching around in the dark, I managed to find my matchbook and, with a quick strike, I could see again.

Dropping my bag among a pile of miscellaneous books and props, scraps of papers and dirty teacups, I eagerly kicked off my worn, brown boots. The apartment was exactly how I had left it and with a sigh I buried myself into the mass of pillows on my bed.

Dammit. 

Why does it still smell like him?

As I tossed over to the other side, the newspaper slid off the bed and hit the ground. Irritated, I flipped over and lazily tried to pick up the fallen newspaper with my free hand. Soon enough I gave up, remembering again my manager's stupid, mocking laugh.

How could he call me a magician? If he thinks I'm a magician then it's obvious Mr. McCarthy has never seen a real magician, nevertheless interviewed a real magician, I thought. 

I pulled my knees into my chest to try to hold off the dull pang in my gut. 

He was a real magician and I'm certainly not him...

I let that thought reverberate through my body before sitting up. Taking a few deep breaths, I willed myself not to bring up the past. The newspaper crinkled as my feet grazed it. 

This isn't happening, I told myself. You only just got home.

Feeling slightly less emotional, and a billion times more tired, I looked around my apartment. It was a mess. There were towers of books, piles of crumpled clothes, an extremely dusty and disorganized table and shelves, and a grease-ridden heating receptacle. I sighed. I guess I can't keep avoiding all of this.

Unbuttoning my jacket and putting it to the side, I made a mental note of all the cleaning supplies I'll need to buy.

Somebody's got to live here.