The Magician's Assistant

by Ann Patchett

The night Phan died, Sabine had thought the tragedy was knowing that Parsifal would die, too, that there was only a limited amount of time. But now Sabine knew the tragedy was living, that there would be years and years to be alone.

Sabine knew what had to be done. She had practice. Phan had been dead fourteen months and fourteen months was long enough to forget exactly nothing. But with Phan it had been different. He had worked towards his death so steadily that they knew its schedule. After the doctor came to the house for the last time and told them a day, maybe two, Phan had died the next morning. With Parsifal, it was only a headache.

Parsifal and Phan had lived together for five years.

She put no stock in dreams. To her they were just a television left on in another room. “I think it means he’s happy.”

She shook her head and asked how he was feeling. He said fine, but there was a little bit of a headache coming on. That had been eight o’clock in the morning. That had been on this same day.

It was the thing that Sabine believed in, more than passion, more than tradition. Find a man you love who is good to you.