Rhymes With Itch

The word hung in the air between them, an accusation tinged with horror and anger.

The silence stretched on. She glared at him, and he began to feel a different kind of fear, the fear of having said something foolish, of having been foolish. He wondered if it would be possible for him to slink backwards out of the kitchen and into the living room, to pretend like he hadn’t seen what he had seen and hadn’t consequently said what he had said.

That was unlikely, he realized. Even if he just kept slinking all the way out the front door and down the steps and out of her apartment building, he could hardly avoid her. They had known each other for years, after a fashion… they’d been on the periphery of each other’s circles for long before he’d grown bold enough to introduce himself. There were too many mutual acquaintances, too many shared associations, too many links.

The look of scorn oftened on her face, and he saw with a pang of guilt and empathy what was behind it, the hurt and the disappointment. He’d caused that, with a single harsh-flung word.

The tray of drinks that had been levitating above the counter ever since he stumbled in on her wobbled a little and then settled back down.

“Wizard,” she said finally.

“W-what?”

“The word is wizard.”