#4 – The Gloves

too cold for gloves by ed ed
too cold for gloves, a photo by ed ed on Flickr.

Stolen! Taken from me when I wasn’t looking… the one time I wasn’t looking! When she walked by.

She refuses me. With her on stage beside me, the act would be complete. She is the final component. But now that I’ve lost them… it is no longer possible.

How adroitly they allow me to work the prestidigitations that awe and astound my scant audience. No ordinary gloves are these, fashioned from the green silk remnants of Solomon’s carpet and lightly embroidered with moon cotton, which only grows wild, deep in the White Caves of Gudvangen. The silly shop owner had no idea what she had carelessly placed next to common riding gloves in her storefront window, but I knew right away what they were. I won’t even tease with how little they cost me.

I remember taking them off and folding them, carefully, into the hidden pocket of my coat. But she walked by just at that moment. That singular, defining moment. When she turned her head, tipped her chin, and smiled at me. And I saw all of time unfold before me, like a rainbow of silk scarves flashing in infinite colors—the arenas we would grace, the love we would have to quiet onstage, the sleights I could conjure with a single glance from her eyes. It was all possible—no—it was happening, had happened already, and I looked back upon it as a dead man to this world.

And then I lost them. And her with them.


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