I
remember clearly, so clearly, crystal, you would whisper, hushed, that the
Devil’s greatest trick, his plus belle
des ruses, was persuading the world that he does not exist. Funny, he was not inclined to agree. Why
would I wish people to believe me make-believe? Such a foggy notion. I suggested, shrugging, that God works in
mysterious ways. I am not God. Our
laughter realised the uncomfortable silence of unacquainted lovers. An awkward shifting of weight from foot to
foot, left to right and right to left.
Fumbled change muffled by corduroy.
You. You used to call him the Great Deceiver. Tucked tight into sheets I would fall asleep
with the wetness of your kiss drying on my cheek. I would dream. So vivid. A magician flourishing, presenting deceit for
adoration. So real. The Great Deceiver. He protested. Why would I
deceive? I coughed, unsure, unable to recall
a memorable reason. His ineptitude has
been clear from the beginning, has it not?
His dismissive tone convincing.
After all, I exist do I not?
True. His existence was real.
Realistic. A reality. Wryly, a smile curling to the left and a
thinned eyebrow raising to the right, he proposed perhaps you were a
deceiver. Perhaps. Although, perhaps not great. He chuckled.
Was it not you, you who had insisted that his trait of chief trickster
was suggested by God? Bullshit. Only if God was French. French and blooming in infernal flame.
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