ROCHELLE

I look down at my sleeping boyfriend and feel disgusted with myself. His innocent face, the peach fuzz on his beardless cheeks, the careless, devil-may-care smirk he wears, even when he’s not awake. He’s a child. A teenager. Young enough to be my son. I was his teacher, for goodness sakes.

And yet for the past two months, we’ve been living together. Travelling, mostly, as he tries to get his stage magic career started. I’m his ‘lovely’ assistant. 

God, I’m forty. I’m too old to be doing crazy stuff like this. If I cared about Leon at all, I’d pack up and leave before he woke up. Let him find a nice girl his own age. Someone he’ll never have to be ashamed of. An eighteen-year-old has no business with someone...much older. He’ll be better off in the long run.

And yet, as I stroke his sleeping cheek, I know that I’ll never leave him. Because these past few months have been the best in my life. Leon has shown me excitement, adventure, and joy that I thought were dead forever. For the first time since my husband left me, I am happy.

No matter how much I should leave, I am going to stay with Leon as long as he’ll have me.

LEON

Mrs. Snow—Rochelle—sits at the table in her robe, playing with her phone. She doesn’t know I’m up, doesn’t know I’m watching her. Taking in her auburn hair, her long legs, her regal face.

Each time I see her, I’m deeply ashamed.

She’s so beautiful, so smart, so mature. There’s not a guy who wouldn’t give anything to be with her. 

And now I’ve dragged her a thousand miles from home, to this falling-down, rented farmhouse where we crash between gigs. When we’re not staying in cheap motels or sleeping in her RV.

Half a year ago, she was my teacher. And now she’s forced to help me with my magic act. 

I took advantage of her. Her husband had left her, and I promised to show her a good time. She was emotionally vulnerable, and I knew that.

If I was any sort of decent guy, I’d sneak out the back door and never look back. Let her find a real man. Someone older, who could buy her a real house and give her the secure life she deserves. Someone who could take care of her.

But I’m not going to. These months I’ve spent with Mrs. Snow have made me happier than I’ve ever been. Every time she smiles at me, the rest of the world falls away. 

And I’m sure as hell not giving that up.

*

Well, enough lazing around. Rochelle and I have three shows to do next week, and if we don’t get some new routines into our act, we won’t get another booking. We’re going to sit down, go over the routine, spitball some new ideas. Then we’re going to write out a long term plan for building our brand, call back those social media people, and then practice for the next fourteen hours. Money is tight, and while life on the road is fun, it’s time to start acting like professionals.

I immediately stand behind Rochelle and start rubbing her bare shoulders under her robe. She’s trying to pay attention to her phone, but it’s a losing battle. In a few minutes that robe is going to be empty on the kitchen floor…

Rochelle suddenly stiffens, distracted by something on the screen. I hope it’s momentary, but she jolts away from me and stands, staring at the screen. She’s silent, an unhappy look on her face.

“Rochelle? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answers robotically.

“C’mon, out with it.” A few months ago, when Rochelle and I started living together, I would have let it drop. But now that we’ve been together for a while, I feel confident enough to press the issue.

“Talk to me, Rochelle.”

I think, for a second, she’s going to tell me to mind my own business and make me feel like just another kid in her class. But then she looks up at me, her face sad, and says one word.

“Michael.”

Michael. Her ex-husband. The guy who dumped the most wonderful woman in the world after nearly twenty years of marriage. The guy who broke her heart and left her with nothing.

The guy who finally gave me the chance to sweep in and make my move after pining over my English teacher for four years. But that’s neither here nor there.

I sit down next to her.”What’s he done?”

She closes her eyes before she speaks. “He’s…getting married.”

Okay, maybe I feel a little relief. Even after all these months, even after how close Rochelle and I have become, I still have that lingering fear that her ex will come crawling back and she’ll realize that I was just a mistake. But if he’s getting married…

And why should this bother Rochelle?

I think she senses my jealousy. “He didn’t e-mail me to be friendly. He wants to rub it in. Let me know how quickly he moved on. How easily he forgot about me. How much better looking his new wife is.”

This infuriates me, especially that last bit. “No way is she—”

Rochelle holds up her phone and I look at the picture of Mrs. Snow, Mark II.

Okay, I’ve kind of pictured my girlfriend as the pinnacle of female beauty, ever since I saw her that first day of freshman English when I was fourteen. Her auburn hair, her pale, freckled skin, her curves, her eyes, her smile. Nothing could hold a candle to her looks.

But Michael’s new wife…damn. Blonde, lithe, and with the face of a movie star.

I roll my eyes just in time. “Jesus. She must be half his age.”

This doesn’t help. I’m less than half Rochelle’s age, and that’s always bothered her.

Rochelle puts down the phone and rubs her eyes. “It was always like this, even when we first got married. He’d always talk about the women who were coming on to him, how skinny and pretty and young they were. I always acted like he was kidding around, even though those comments really hurt. And now…” She sighs. “I’m so much better off with you, Leon. But you have to understand, this really makes me feel like I got thrown away.”

I move to pat her hand, but she moves away, oblivious. Why does anything her ex does still matter to her? How can he still get under her skin when she has…me?

She looks down at her phone again. “He’s coming through town in a few days. He asked if I wanted to have dinner with them. Just so he can smirk when I tell him no. When I’m too ashamed to face him. Or if I do agree, so he can shove his anorexic little cookie in my face.”

I remember, back before we were anything but teacher and student, overhearing a conversation between Rochelle and her husband. They had just separated. She was begging for him not to leave. It was then that I decided to bring magic into her life. To make her forget all about him.

Looks like I failed.

“Well,” I venture. “Just block his number. Don’t even answer.”

“Yeah.” She drops her phone and stands. Then she freezes. After a second, her face transforms. It takes on that icy, cruel, humorless expression that terrified and aroused me when I was her student.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. That SOB broke me, and I’d still be broken if you hadn’t come into my life, Leon. And I’m going to show him that he’s not the only one who’s moved on. I am going to have dinner with them. And I’m going to come with the sexiest hunk of barely-legal boy toy on my arm.”

I leap to my feet. “Who? Who the hell—”

I suddenly realize who she means. Her expression grows colder as she shakes her head.

“You always were a little dense, Leon.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Seriously. Use your brain once in a while.”

I look at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, buster. Go to your room. Now.”

I nod and skink off, but not before her hand strikes and cups my rear end. As I head to the bedroom, she follows me. I hear the soft sound of her bathrobe falling as she abandons it on the kitchen floor.

ROCHELLE

Leon sits next to me in the fancy restaurant. It’s the nicest place we’ve dined in months. Leon insisted we meet Michael here. I didn’t think we could afford it, but Leon was adamant. I pretended not to notice his video game system had vanished or the pawn ticket I found in his pants.

Speaking of pants, Leon does clean up nicely. He’s wearing the slacks and shirt I picked out for him. God, but that kid is handsome. He acts a little off tonight though, a little tired. This seems to happen to him about once a week. He’ll suddenly look completely exhausted and sick, though he’ll insist he’s fine. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to make him see a doctor. 

Strangely, on the days he feels tired, I always feel weirdly energized…

“Hi, can I start you folks off with something to drink?” Our waitress, a cute, college age girl, has approached our table.

“A glass of red,” I say.

“Just water,” says Leon. “I’m driving.”

He’s not driving. He just doesn’t want to drive home the fact he won’t be old enough to drink for three years.

The waitress smiles at him. Smiles at him a little too long, a little too appraisingly. As if I’m not even there. And for a moment, I imagine what it would be like if I weren’t here. How this girl would flirt with Leon, and slip him her number with the check. And he’d call her, because I wouldn’t be there holding him back.

“So is tonight a special occasion?” she asks.

“Special occasion?” asks Leon.

“Is it your mother’s birthday or something?”

The gaffe hangs heavy in the air.

“I wouldn’t know,” replies Leon, icily. “I never knew my mother.”

Our server suddenly realizes what she’s done and scurries off. I wish I could say that was the first time someone ever made that assumption.

Leon places a hand on mine. “Rochelle…”

Leon noticed him before I did. Michael. My ex. He’s grinning, approaching our table. And I hate to admit it, divorce looks good on him. He’s trimmed his beard. I think he might have dyed the gray away from his hair. He’s lost weight. He’s wearing a new suit.

Of course any faint nostalgia I feel is instantly eradicated when I see the little tramp on his arm. She’s much closer to Leon’s age than my own. Probably 110 pounds. Naturally blonde, but with short, businesslike hair. Perky little breasts. Thin thighs. 

“Rochelle!” calls Michael, as if I’m an old friend he hasn’t seen for a while. “It’s so good to see you again.” 

Too late do I realize that Leon stood up when they approached our table, but I didn’t, which makes him look awkward. I quickly get to my feet, bumping into the table and knocking over my glass of water. Lovely.

Michael stares at the spill, just long enough that no one can ignore my screw up. He then gestures to his date. “Christie, this is Rochelle, who I’ve told you so much about. Rochelle, this is my fiancée, Christie.”

Christie tilts her head and smiles, while extending her perfectly manicured hand. Her skin is smooth, her makeup flawless, her smile friendly. God, I detest her. I mumble something that could pass for a greeting.

Michael and Christie are staring at me and I feel that I’ve missed something. Leon quietly clears his throat.

“Oh! Um, this is my boyfriend, Leon.” Did that sound weird? Immature?

Leon is unfazed and shakes Michael’s hand, while looking him in the eye. I can tell Michael is surprised. Good. He clearly expected to outnumber me tonight, and I’m glad to show him that I’m not the only one who can make bad decisions with a partner far too young for me. God, Christie is twenty if she’s a day.

Leon pulls my chair out for me and we sit. Both Leon and Michael say something at the same time, then motion for the other to speak. Then a waiter interrupts to take their drink orders. When he leaves, silence falls.

Time to swallow my pride. “So, Christie, I really don’t know much about you.”

She smiles, coquettishly. “Oh, there’s not much to tell, really.”

Of course not. She’s barely out of her teens.

“Don’t be modest,” interjects Michael. “Christie was an alternate on the US diving team, last Olympics. And she designs her own line of swimwear.”

I think I’m about to say something catty. Something cutting. But I happen to look at Leon. And I can tell that he’s impressed. He’s impressed and charmed in spite of himself. Why shouldn’t he be? That’s the kind of woman he should be with. The kind of woman he deserves.

I think Michael notices Leon sizing up his partner. “And, um, Leon? What do you do?”

“I’m a magician!” Leon’s so proud of himself. And he should be. But now, facing down my ex and his little arm candy, that sounds so….childish. I hate to say it, but it does. And by the way Michael is smirking, I can tell he thinks the same thing.

“So how did you two meet?” asks Christie, disgustingly polite. 

“Oh, Mrs. Snow and I go way back.”

I cringe. Leon still has a hard time remembering to call me by my first name. Sometimes it’s cute and even a little sexy, but tonight…

Michael catches it. “Mrs. Snow? Oh, Rochelle, I hope young Leon here wasn’t one of your old students.”

Leon gets slightly red. That’s a huge point of embarrassment for me, and honestly, from a legal standpoint, I don’t really need people to know how we met.

“Of course not!” says Leon, too loudly, too forcefully. “Rochelle is my assistant in my act.”

Somehow, that’s even more humiliating. Michael doesn’t know how talented Leon is. And now he’s picturing me helping Leon pull rabbits out of a hat at children’s birthday parties. 

I need this line of questioning to end. “So how did you two meet?” I ask Michael.

Christie answers. “Oh, Michael was at a convention in Philadelphia a couple of years ago. He chatted me up at the bar, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

The room takes on a reddish hue. I feel my gorge rise. Somehow I manage to stand, to get out of my chair, to mumble a goodbye. I stumble to the lobby.

Leon joins me a minute later. “Rochelle! What’s wrong? What happened?”

I fight for stability. “Leon, don’t ask questions. Get me to the car.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t prod. He drives me silently home. 

Philadelphia. A couple of years ago. A business convention.

I remember that. I remember Michael going there…because we were still married.

He didn’t dump me and then take up with someone new. 

He took up with someone else, and then dumped me.

*

“Rochelle, you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.”

I’ve been sitting silently on the couch in our rundown farmhouse, deflecting Leon’s attempts at conversation. But it’s been hours. I can’t ignore him.

“Leon…when Michael and that little slut met…”

“You were still married?” he finishes.

I nod. “How did you know?”

He sits down next to me and passes me a cup of coffee. “Junior year. I remember you telling the class how your husband’s flight from Philly was delayed. And me thinking if I were him, I wouldn’t go off and leave you.”

I manage a weak smile. “If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have invited you over.”

We laugh, but it’s forced. “Rochelle…I know I’m not an Olympian or entrepreneur, but…”

I set down my cup. “Stop it, Leon. You’re all I ever wanted. All I need. But it still hurts. We were married almost twenty years. I deserved better than that.”

“You certainly did,” replies Leon, sounding uncharacteristically mature. “But I shouldn’t have said anything about the magic act. I should’ve have said I was a tech billionaire or something.”

I put my arm around him. “You’re all I need, kiddo. Just…if you’re going to cheat, please dump me first.”

I expect howling denials, but he gets a faraway look. “The same goes for you.”

I laugh. “Please. I’d never cheat on you. I hate to think what you’d do if you found out.” With Leon’s skills, I might end up as a girlie poster or pet rabbit.

“Rochelle!” says Leon, offended.

“I mean, if I was unfaithful, you’d probably take some horrible revenge. You’d probably drag me by my hair and then tie me to the bed.”

“I wouldn’t!” he stammers.

“And then you’d spank me. Spank me until my butt was red and I couldn’t sit down.”

Leon leaps to his feet. “Rochelle! I hope you’d realize I’d never lay a hand on you! I’d never—”

I sigh, stand, and grab him by the face. “Leon, you can be incredibly slow some days, so I’m going to have to spell it out for you. I’m feeling very used and unattractive tonight. So I want you to grab me by the hair, tie me to the bed, and spank me.”

He grins. “Yes, ma’am!”

LEON

That was a nice interlude, but I was distracted. I don’t think Rochelle noticed, though. I look at her in our bed, sound asleep, daintily snoring. I know I should forget about what happened tonight. I hate to say it, but her dopey ex cheating on her was the best thing that ever happened to me. If I hadn’t told her how I felt, right when she was feeling so vulnerable, we never would have ended up together. 

But Michael and his ex humiliated Rochelle tonight. Christie might have been too flighty to realize it, but the only reason he wanted her to meet Rochelle was so that he could show her up. Let her know how well he was doing, while she was alone. And I don’t think I helped things. Michael and his girl and probably giggling about how Mrs. Snow was desperate enough to date an ex student.

I can’t let that go. No one insults Rochelle and gets away with it. I pause to make sure she’s still slumbering, I get out of bed and check her phone. There’s a message from Michael.

Rochelle, I’m sorry you didn’t stay to have dinner with us. I could have paid.

My fist clenches. I copy down Michael’s number and then text him from my phone.

Michael, this is Leon. I’m sorry we had to leave, Rochelle was feeling ill. We’d like to make it up to you and Christie. We’re performing at a dinner show tomorrow, and I’d love it if you could join us. I’ll send you the address and leave tickets for you at will call.

*

We’ve never played this venue before. It’s a nice size casino, and if we impress the management tonight, we might get signed on for a long stretch. Who knows? With a little money saved up, we can move into a nicer place. Though I’ve kind of fallen in love with that rickety old farm house. The landlord mentioned that he’d be willing to sell it to us outright. Me and Rochelle, our own little place…

“And here’s your dressing room, Rochelle.”

Mr. Brown, the manager of the venue, is giving us a tour of the place. Well, giving Rochelle a tour, as I bring up the rear. I can’t say I blame him. He’s a handsome man of about fifty, probably an ex-athlete, clearly wealthy, and clearly taken with my girlfriend. And why shouldn’t he be? She’s closer to his age than mine. He could afford to give her the things I can’t: a nice house, a nice car, vacations, jewelry…not life in a drafty farm house, fast food meals, and a boyfriend people keep mistaking for her son.

But Rochelle just slips into the dressing room and I follow, shutting the door in Mr. Brown’s face. Rochelle hangs up her garment bag and begins undressing.

“So Leon, the usual act tonight?”

“Huh?” Rochelle had removed her shirt. And even after months together, the sight of her always nearly brings me to my knees.

“Leon!” she barks in her teacher voice. “Is there anything I need to know about tonight’s act?

“Huh? No. Just…follow along.”

I did not tell Rochelle that I had invited Michael and Christie. She’d be upset with me and nervous. No, if this is going to work out, I need everyone to be surprised, including Rochelle. But especially Michael.

*

“Now is this your card?” 

The audience cheers, predictably. I have them eating out of the palm of my hand. Now that I’ve warmed them up, it’s time for the big event.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Rochelle!”

For four years I fell in love with Rochelle while she wore nothing but dowdy pantsuits and severe blouse/slacks combos, back when she was Mrs. Snow. That magical (literally magical) night when we first hooked up, she’d been wearing the dress she has on now. And I knew then, I’d never love another woman like I love her.

It’s a black, backless thing, slit up the side. She’s wearing high heels, and her hair is piled high on her head. She dresses like that, because as my assistant, she needs to distract the audience. And we can’t afford to buy her another outfit like that, just yet. But part of me gets very jealous that this look can’t be for me, and for me alone.

As if on cue, several rowdy college guys in the front row begin whooping and whistling. Rochelle smiles, and gives a little courtesy, even though they’re nearly twenty years younger than her (and not that much older than myself). But then she freezes.

I glance to see what she’s looking at. Yep, right on cue. Michael and Christie couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing our show. Curiosity? A chance to mock us further? Who knows. But they’re in for a ride.

I start off with the usual patter, jokes about the hot local weather, while releasing doves from my sleeves and making sparks shoot out of my fingers. Rochelle hands me props. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Michael and Christie smirking. Poor Rochelle, having to reduce herself to this.

No, time for bigger things. I ask for a volunteer from the audience. I notice Christie’s hand tentatively go up, but I ignore her, choosing a frat boy looking dude, about my age or slightly older. I go through my usual comedy routine, gently ribbing him about his major and his lack of a girlfriend. I then unveil a post and produce a pair of handcuffs. I instruct the guy to secure Rochelle’s wrists tightly behind her back. The guy complies with a sly grin. Making sure that I have Michael’s full attention, I joke about how he shouldn’t get too familiar, or he should at least buy Rochelle a drink first. Everyone, Rochelle included, giggles.

“Now reach around one last time, and make sure those manacles are nice and tight.”

The guy follows my instructions. Suddenly, Rochelle yelps, as if the dude’s hand had strayed somewhere it shouldn’t have. He immediately jumps away, to the laughter of the audience. Rochelle winks at him.

“I get off at eight,” she loud whispers. The guy ducks his head in embarrassment, then laughs awkwardly.

But there in the audience….yes. Michael does not look happy. What, does it bother you to see the woman you dumped, doing a little harmless flirting with a man half your age? Did you think she entered a nunnery the night you left? Oh, just you wait.

“Hands to yourself!” I snap, and hurl a sheet in front of both of them.  When I yank it away two seconds later, Rochelle is free, and the volunteer is handcuffed to the pole, a shocked look on his face. The audience thunderously applauds. Rochelle releases him, pecks him on the cheek, and swats him on the butt as he returns to his chair. 

Michael is definitely looking jealous. But then, so am I. I do a few simple mind reading tricks, some sleight of hand, and a bit of juggling. And now the big finish.

I wheel out a screen and place Rochelle behind it, with only her head visible from the top. The lights dim. Eerie music begins to play. I produce a sword. With a quick stabbing motion, I impale Rochelle from the side. She lets out a startled scream. We’ve actually never done this before. I stab again. There’s a ripping noise, and the blade emerges with a scrap of her dress dangling from the end. I stab again and again, finally withdrawing the blade with most of the tattered remains of her gown. The audience, especially the men, go wild. Rochelle is looking at me in horror, both because of the destruction of her dress, and because she’s now in her underwear, with only a screen separating her from the crowd.

Too late, one final stab, and I withdraw her bra on the end of my sword. Behind the screen, Rochelles awkwardly tries to cover herself up, with only her face and bare shoulders visible to the audience. I smirk. Then I knock the screen over.

Rochelle gasps and the audience cheers. Rochelle is now wearing a green bandeau bikini, one that barely contains her ample chest. The audience roars.

Making sure that Michael and Christie have a great view, I passionately kiss Rochelle. Then, with a snap of my fingers, she vanishes. Her empty bikini hovers in the air for a moment, then collapses on stage.

Once I’ve wrapped up the act and brought Rochelle back, we work the audience. Rochelle, now back in her black dress, is surrounded by fans, mostly men, congratulating her on the act and trying to get her number. I’m not worried. If there’s one thing I know about Rochelle, she’s faithful.

Across the room I see Michael helping Christie with her coat. He seems distracted and annoyed, his eyes flashing back to Rochelle, behind the crush of college guys. I make my way to their table, ignoring several sorority girls who try to talk to me. This happens after almost every show, and for the life of me, I’ll never understand why so many girls that age are into stage magic. 

I grab Rochelle by the arm and head off Michael and Christie before they can leave. 

“I hope you two enjoyed the show tonight.” I no longer feel like a pathetic busker, trying to earn the price of a cup of coffee with some sleight of hand. And I no longer feel like a loser teenager with a hopeless crush on his teacher. I’m a professional illusionist, my act is amazing, and my girlfriend is smoking hot.

“Yes, very nice,” mumbles Michael.

“They were better than nice,” chirps Christie. “That color changing balloon act, how did you do it?”

I wag a finger.  “A good magician never gives away his tricks. But I hope you two aren’t about to run off. The night is young. Why don’t you join Rochelle and I back at our place. We could open a bottle of wine and catch up.”

I didn’t clear this with Rochelle, but thankfully, she doesn’t argue. I’ll tell her my plans in the car. Her ex looks like he’s about to make an excuse, but Christie pipes up.

“We’d love to.”

ROCHELLE

Once again, Leon has made me feel incredibly alive. Incredibly excited. Even…incredibly good looking. 

All four of us sit in the drafty living room of our rented farm house. Yesterday, I would have been embarrassed for Michael and his little tart to see how we are living. Now, our lifestyle seems crazy and Bohemian.

Leon pours more wine, then sits back down on the ragged couch. I snuggle against him. Across from us, Michael and Christie sit in two chairs. Christie seems relaxed and a little tipsy. Michael seems uptight and annoyed. Especially when Christie talks to Leon.

“Rochelle really helped me work out my act,” says Leon, taking a sip of his drink. “Before she joined me, it was all over the place. I tried to cram too much in: comedy, escapes, hypnotism—”

Christie claps her hands. “Hypnotism! I love those acts.”

Michael snorts. “Just a bunch of weak minded people doing whatever some showman tells them to.”

Leon cocks an eyebrow. “That’s actually a misconception. To be hypnotized takes a certain facility for mental focus and concentration. A scatterbrained person wouldn’t be as open to suggestion.”

I think Michael is about to argue, but Christie interrupts.

“Do me! Hypnotize me.”

“I dunno,” say Michael and Leon at the same time.

“Go on,” I say. “Give it a shot.”

Leon hypnotized me once, when we were rained in for a weekend. I thought it hadn’t worked, but that Sunday afternoon he snapped his fingers and I realized I’d been naked for over a day.

When Leon used to hypnotize people in public, he’d use the swinging watch and whole theatrical bit. Here, he just turns off the music and lowers the lights. 

“Christie, close your eyes. Focus on my voice. You’re getting calmer and calmer…”

In thirty seconds, she’s under his command. And while a stage hypnotist can’t make anyone do anything against their grain, only Leon and I are aware of how truly helpless she really is. Soon, her eyes open again, blank and expressionless.

“Christie, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice is flat, monotone.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” she answers without pause. 

Almost half Michael’s age. Though not as big an age gap as between Leon and me.

“How long have you and Michael been together?”

“Over a year.”

I can tell Michael is getting uncomfortable. Though I have to ask something.

“Were you aware he was married when you started dating?”

I’m not sure if Christie will follow my commands, but she answers instantly.

“Yes.”

“Okay, enough of that,” barks Michael. At least he has the decency to look ashamed. A little.

“And that didn’t bother you?” I probe.

Christie answers robotically. “Why should it? His marriage was practically over at the time.”

No. No, it was not.

Michael looks like he’s about to panic and Leon looks equally uncomfortable. But I can’t resist.

“Christie, when I snap my fingers, you will become a chicken. A hen. A clucking, brainless piece of poultry.”

I never thought it would work. But the skinny, blonde, beautiful slip of a girl who stole my husband immediately squats, starts flapping her arms, and clucking. And I know she’s not faking. Her pretty blue eyes are totally vacuous and empty. Well, more so than before.

Leon has had enough of this. “Christie! Look me in the eye!”

But Christie can no longer follow verbal commands. Her skirt rides up over her thighs as she waddles over to the coffee table and begins smacking her face into a bowl of peanuts, clucking confusedly at her lack of a beak. It’s all I can do to hold my laughter in.

“Christie!” yells Leon. “C’mon…hey!” Leon has tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she explodes in a fury of gobbles and screeches. 

It’s then that I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Michael.

“Rochelle, can we speak in private?”

As Leon wrestles Christie, I lead an unconcerned Michael upstairs into the bedroom.

We stare at each other a long moment, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window of the drafty old farmhouse where Leon and I have made our home.

He breaks the silence. “It…it was good to see you, Rochelle.”

I’d like to tell him I don’t feel the same way, but it would be a lie. Standing here, I see the same handsome young twenty-year-old man who stole my heart back in college, all those years ago. “It was good to see you as well, Michael.”

He moves toward me. “Rochelle…I…I’m sorry.”

I tilt my head. He continues.

“The thing with Christie…I’m beginning to see what a mistake it was. Last year, things were so stressful. I felt so old and useless. Then I met Christie and things seemed fresh and exciting again.”

I bristle, but hold it in.

“But now I realize…that was all a mistake. Seeing you up on the stage tonight…you were so beautiful. So radiant. Just like the girl I married.”

I always was the girl you married. I still am.

He places a hand on my arm, and I don’t pull away. “Rochelle…would you consider giving me another chance? I’m not asking for forgiveness, but a guy can make a mistake every once in a while. Do you think…we can start over again? Pretend the last year never happened?”

How I’d dreamed of him saying this. For months after he left me, I prayed he’d come back. That I could forgive him and we’d go on like before. But now there are complications.

A crash echoes up from downstairs, and Leon shouts something inaudible. We both smile.

“What about Leon?” I ask. “What about Christie?”

He shrugs. “They’re young and attractive. They’ll find people their own age. Heck, they seem to get along, who knows?” 

Downstairs, I hear glass shattering and angry clucking.

He’s right. They’d both land on their feet. Leon could find someone his own age. Someone he deserves. While Michael and I…

He touches my cheek. “So…how about it?”

It’s time for me to say something I never thought I’d utter, not in a million years.

“Michael…you don’t know how I’ve prayed for this moment.” Our faces move together. There’s no going back.

But I pull away. “There’s just one thing.”

I slyly pull my cellphone out of my pocket and text Leon some random characters. That’s the signal.

“Michael, there’s nothing I’d like more than to come back to you. Just to pretend that things were like they always were. But when you left…”

I can feel the changes starting to happen.

“I kind of lost control. I drank, I didn’t sleep, I missed work. And I began stress eating.”

My belly presses against the sweatpants I changed into after the show. My arms and thighs grow round and plump.

“I just couldn’t stop. Food was my only solace.”

My top rides up over expanding rolls of fat. The sleeve rends under my expanding arm flab. My butt forces its way over the stressed elastic of my waistband. 

“Leon cast a spell to make me look thin. But in reality…”

The clasp of my bra breaks as my enormous breasts grow. My belly hangs down over my thighs. I have a double…no, a triple chin.  

“This is who I am now. But I know that means nothing to you, Michael. Obviously, Leon won’t keep up the beautification spell if I leave him, but it doesn’t matter, darling. We can be happy now…”

Within thirty seconds, I hear Michael’s car peel out of our driveway. 

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Leon said he’d make me 300 pounds, but I think I’m closer to 350 or higher.

Leon joins me in the bedroom a moment later. “Michael seemed in a hurry. What happened?”

I laugh, and he pulls me toward him. He kisses me and envelops me in a hug. His hands don’t come close to touching. After a moment, he disengages and growls at my new, enormous cleavage. I shove him away.

“So…” he asks.

“Exactly as you said it would.” I’m having difficulty finding my new center of balance. “He begged me to come back. Not a thought about what he’d done to me, or what would happen to Christie, or how you’d feel. It was only when he saw me looking fat that he took off.”

“Typical. Well, I’m glad I could show you how shallow he is.”

I put my hands on my hips, disconcerted by how flappy my arms are now. “I know how shallow he is. But I have to admit, this was a lot of fun. Now, if you’ll change me back…”

Leon doesn’t answer. He just envelops me in an embrace, and begins killing my neck rolls. I shove him away again.

“Leon, you can change me back, right?” I never confronted him about my permanent rabbit’s tail or going from 5’9” to 5’6” overnight, but this would be too much.

“Relax. I”ll turn you back…in the morning.” He grabs my huge posterior.

“Leon! I don’t want to stay–” I lose my balance and topple over backwards into the bed, which screams in agony. Leon is on top of me in seconds. I stop resisting.

*

The next morning, I stagger to the fridge, looking for a protein shake to replenish my energy. I figured Leon would make love to fat me once, just to prove such things didn’t bother him. But no, it was his usual threepeat before he turned me back into saggy, tired old Rochelle. 

But I’m all his. And it was wonderful to freak out Michael like that. Of course…

A noise from the living room distracts me and I peek in.

“Um, Leon?” I shout. “We kind of forgot about something.”

*

“Rochelle, we have to end this. Tonight!”

I lounge lazily on our back porch. The landlord has been begging us to consider buying this property, I think it’s a good idea. It’s time Leon and I had our own place. The farmhouse has good bones, a garage, and a fenced-in back yard.

“Rochelle!”

And in that back yard, Christie has been flapping around for three days. Filthy, disheveled, and 100% convinced that she’s a chicken.

I figured Michael had taken her with him the night he tried to cheat on her, and dippy Leon forgot all about her. But Michael never came back or called. Probably just a big commitment phobe, or he figured I spilled the beans about him trying to get back with me.

So we left Christie penned up in the back, scrabbling at the dirt. Leon, of course, wanted to bring her back to normal immediately, but I have my ways of distracting him. His patience, however, is at an end.

“Rochelle, this is getting dangerous. She’s going to end up hurting herself. Not to mention…” he holds up a handful of small feathers. “She’s starting to change physically. I can’t reverse that. Not to mention–you know what.”

I shrug.

“Mrs. Snow! I could go to jail if someone came looking for her.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. And much as I’d like to fry Christie up for Sunday dinner, I know I have to let Leon end this. 

“Fine. Bring her around.”

Leon smiles.

“Tomorrow.”

“Rochelle…”

“Tomorrow. I promise.” I then silence him with a kiss.

But a promise is a promise, and tomorrow, we’ll bring Christie back. I’ll clean her up and get her some clothes. She’ll have no memory of what happened, though I guess I’ll have to explain how Michael dumped her.

But she can do better. Next time she goes looking for a boyfriend, hopefully it won’t be a married man. Someone who will appreciate not only her beauty and grace, but her mind.

And someone who enjoys freshly laid eggs every morning.