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Kailey Rhone

Dirt whirled around the crowd’s feet as the wind blew
through the candy-striped tent. The only black in the room
was the coal eyeliner dripping like paint from his mother’s
glossy eyes. He requested that the gentlemen wear top hats
and tailcoats and the women wear feathers and fur. He
insisted, also, that Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2 play as the
Lindenburg twins brought daffodils to his coffin. And as I
expected, but heartily resisted to, he wanted me to speak of
the life he led. I looked onto the multitude of characteristics—
the pinstripes, the boas, the sequins—and read aloud the last
letter he ever wrote me:

My dearest Anya,

When my final breath has been drawn
and my heart no longer makes that thudding
sound, tell the world this: you look like an
angel when you fly from one trapeze to the
next, and I fell for you before you landed. Tell
them since then I have been nothing but a
thief and black was never my color, so I
didn’t look the part. I pride myself on having
stolen your heart, but that moment where we
say goodbye, it will be yours again to give to
whom you wish. Tell them about the illusions:
the four mirrored room, the severed woman,
the disappearing audience member— but
never reveal the secret behind them. For it’s
best I remain the only thief. Let everyone cry
and reminisce—it is only human that they do.
Remind them that the performance always
ends, and it doesn’t matter whether they are

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