“So what are we doing?” he asks. It’s the last day of the con. Breakfast is thinning out when he plops down across from me with his legal pad.

“Huh?” I stare stupidly.

With mild impatience: “We’re teaching a class in an hour. We should talk about what we’re doing.” Ah, right. That. I’m bottoming for his class. I’d assisted for this one before, but he wanted to quickly discuss which trance techniques he’d be demonstrating.

While I watch, he clicks the lead into his mechanical pencil and writes something on the pad. I focus on the place where pencil meets paper. My breathing shifts. I lick my lips slightly.

He notices. Hypnotists always notice. Thinking for a beat, then rolling his eyes, “Ah, this is feeding your weird experimentation thing.“ Ah. Right.

We move on, finishing our negotiations, but my wetness lingers. The legal pad, the pencil, the notes, the wide expanse of table between us, his dismissive tone, my unshakable sense of smallness. Eureka.