Bewitched and Bewildered ...Finale ...Exorcising a Demon

My worst fears have been confirmed—all this time I was labouring under a curse trying to romance Sylvia and was ironically betrayed by Frizzy whom I thought was my friend.

She actually taught Sylvia to stick pins in my effigy, hence my sprained ankle and various ailments.

I know she meant well thinking she was saving Sylvia from a 'menacing pervert' who Sylvia complained was stalking her, but now that I know she realizes her error, and all the warding off spells in the world aren't going to help.

I have to see Sylvia and try to turn things around myself.

All the way over to Sylvia’s building my thoughts are racing.

What if she won’t answer or let me in? My fears mount as I stand in the foyer buzzing the intercom without any response.

Finally, I hear Sylvia’s soft whisper, “Yes?”

“Sylvia, it’s Jay. I need to talk to you. Will you let me in?”

There’s a long pause, and just when I’m sure she’s not going to answer, the lock clicks open. I ride the ancient Otis elevator to her fourth floor apartment having no idea what I’m going to say.

I knock softly at the door and she answers, dressed in the white hooded housecoat I wore the night before.

“I just made tea,” she says sadly, “are you interested?”

“I am.”

I sit down on the same sofa chair I used last night and prop my foot up on the same setae.

In a few minutes she comes back with two steaming mugs. “How’s your ankle?” she asks softly.

“It’s fine. How’s your heart?” I whisper.

She sinks down on the floor at my feet, lays her head in my lap and sobs quietly.

I let her, occasionally stroking her lovely red hair and telling her it’ll be all right, when I have no idea if it ever will.

Eventually, the tears subside and she lifts her face to me. “Were those poems written to me?”

I nod mutely.

“The sketches too—are those me?”

“Are they that bad?” I ask.

She shakes her head, “They’re so beautiful, I couldn’t believe they were me. I thought they were some idealized portrait of an angel or a princess.”

“They are, but they’re also you—they’re your soul, Sylvia—at least, the way it looks to me.”

She gently nods and then goes quiet, and when she speaks again, I can hardly hear her.

“I saw your soul too, Jay, in those sketches and poems—just as I saw Nicholas for what he really was in those photos.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Sylvia.”

“I know,” she whispers, “you’re not like him. He never cared to treasure me. You did.”

I didn’t want to, but had to ask. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did. And you know what was interesting? He didn’t try to deny it. He simply shrugged philosophically as if to say, well, it’s out in the open now—the game is over.”

“And is it?”

She smiles bitterly, “Oh, rest assured it is—Nicholas Randall is history—and to tell you the truth, I never thought he was a good writer. Certainly not in the league of Nabokov or Gide.”

I nod sadly.

And then, as an afterthought, she adds, “But I do see elements of Hefner in his style.”

As I said at the beginning, it all started with a rainstorm and went on from there.

I had my own Prospero, in the person of Frizzy Morgan, conjuring up magic spells that brought me in a tempest to Sylvia’s apartment.

But in the end it wasn’t spells or magic that drew Sylvia and I together, but simple attraction—the gravity of two souls meant for each other.

Sylvia convinced me I have talent. She loves my sketches and poems, so much so that she’s persuaded me to publish a book of poetry adorned with my sketches, and has put me in touch with a publisher who’s as enthusiastic about them as she is.

Oh, did I mention? Frizzy is going to be Maid of Honour. Sylvia and I are getting married this October.

When she asked about a location, I immediately had a vision—preferably somewhere outdoors, I told her... with a downpour of red maple leaves the colour of her hair.