The
Conjurer

“How did you know?” I am lying naked on what feels
like a velvet lined alter – though he assures me it’s simply a
platform for best viewing his subjects. “Was it obvious?”

He pauses, I can see him from a mirror placed
serendipitously on the wall so my eyes can give the impression of
looking right at him while he paints, but I am able to catch a woozy
reflected glimpse from the side.

“Perhaps not to everyone,” he says very gently, “but
I study things. Everything. I can’t look at even a glass without
being fascinated by how the light strikes it – both piercing and
reflecting, causing shadows to make it look whole.” He pauses to
load up his brush and perhaps, I think, he might be a little
embarrassed about what he might say next.

“Go on,” I urge.

“Well, it’s just that, most people can’t handle my
scrutiny. Most people find it… me… creepy.”

My skin bristles and I’m suddenly panicky. What the
hell and I doing here, naked, in a strange man’s flat, drunk and
almost blind? I feel a little sick. Creepy? I hold my breath and the
air grows static between us. He must see the change in my posture.
Self preservation screams at me to shatter the suddenly weird
atmosphere. He beats me to it.

“I mean, I can’t help staring that’s all,” he
says, the slight uneven tone in his voice alerting me to the fact
that he knows he’s said something to scare me. “I’m still like
a child in that way. It gets hard to cultivate good social skills
when you’re talking to someone and all you want to do is study the
way their skin skates and moves over the bones beneath.” He manages
a soft nervous laugh, trying to soothe me. “I’m not really… I
mean… I shouldn’t have said the word creepy.” He is terribly
flustered now and through the mirror I see he is mixing colours
frantically on his palette.

“It’s all right,” I say, choosing to stick with my
initial impression of this man. I hesitate, desperately wanting to
ask him the question that no-one will answer, but not wanting to hear
the truth either. I have to know. “So how exactly did you know?”
I ask the question in a way that I hope he understands what knowledge
I’m seeking and that I don’t want to admit that I want to know.
I brace myself, thinking he’s going to give a description of my
strange looking eyes.

He puts down his brushes and steps out from behind the
easel walking quickly towards me. Before I can work out what’s
going on, he lifts my face by my chin and through my blinkered vision
I feel him looking right into me.

“Because
you didn’t look away,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss me.

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