He met her at the café on a Monday. Mondays were always his café day. Mainly because the café had a delicious lunch special. She sat down at his table as if she'd been invited and smiled at him.
He didn't know her. He was fairly sure that he'd have remembered someone who looked like her. She was a short thing, tiny even, with pale skin and hair so dark it seemed to drain the light.
Her lips and nails were blood red and glistened in the light. She was pretty, he admitted to himself, and was very striking, especially her eyes. He assumed she wore contact lenses because her eyes weren't green or blue, but red like rubies.
"Do I know you?" he asked, trying to break the ice.
"No," she said in a sweet voice as the waiter brought her a glass of water, "Not yet."
"I um..." he floundered, "I see."
"Veronica," she supplied and pulled a black silk handkerchief from her sleeve and covered her glass of water.
"Veronica?" he asked, dimly feeling a bit lost.
She smiled and jerked the handkerchief from the glass, which now appeared to be filled with orange juice. "Veronica," she said again, "It's my name. Now you know me." She smiled again and stage whispered, "This is where you tell me your name."
"Oh, uh, it's Bill," he smiled lamely. He was a bit distracted by her, he admitted to himself. And he was curious about the glass. It certainly smelled like orange juice.
She took a long sip and offered the glass to him, "It is. Just so you know. Taste it."
"Uh..." he said and did as she asked. It was the best tasting orange juice he'd ever had.
"I work at a sandwich shop," he blurted out, trying to think of something to say.
She laughed, "No you don't. You're a painter. The sandwich thing is a hobby for money."
"I'm not a painter," he said.
"Do you paint?" she asked.
"Well, yes," he replied.
"And you are pretty serious about it?" she continued, her eyes glinting.
"Well. Yes. But I don't sell many."
"So?" she scoffed and finished her orange juice, "You paint. You're a painter."
"I guess," he said doubtfully, "What do you do?"
"I..." she said with a flourish that brought about a puff of smoke from her fingertips, "am a wizard."
He'd never really enjoyed magicians since he was a child. Once he knew what some of the tricks were, the wonder seemed to vanish.
"Does being a magician pay well?" he murmured and wondered where his order was.
"Wizard," she corrected, "it's different."
"How?" He asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," she said with another dazzling smile, "magicians are illusionists. I'm not."
He laughed at that, "So what you do is...?"
"Real," she said, blinking her ruby eyes, "I think the word you're looking for is real."
