Magic, not miracles

June 24, 2011

She had always wished for alchemy, for one thing to turn to another without explanation, without prodding and experimentation. She liked rabbits from hats, cards identified without vision, bodies sawed apart and put back together without apparent surgery. She subscribed to sleight of hand because it was so much more spectacular than the plodding of the days.

But she didn’t ask for miracles. It wasn’t as if she had asked to drink from the Fountain of Youth—she didn’t mind growing old, after all, but she wanted to grow old with him.

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