With a delicate touch, he moved the coffee machine to the shadows, adding an additional pat of affection. Now centered in the dimly lit space behind the curtain he face me, a warm, familiar smile on his face. He seemed kind. He seemed knowing. He seemed paternal even.

“My dear,” he said with a voice like Rod Serling before the cigarettes, “Have you ever heard the saying that control is an illusion?” I hadn’t, but I nodded anyway. With a flick of his wrist, a coin appeared in his hand and proceeded to dance between his fingers.

“So control is a parlor trick you learned in high school?” Heaven help me, I have no idea where that came from. My mother says I have the devil’s tongue, but my dad just says my pride routinely whoops up on my common sense.

The Controller just kept smiling, and the coin stopped its weaving course to be held betwixt thumb and forefinger, “No, my dear, this is a parlor trick.” The coin disappeared with a snap of his fingers. “And now for the illusion…”