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“Listen. You gotta talk to Ronny.” Bobby sits cross-legged on the dining room table, drumming their fingers restlessly against the wood. They peer over their shoulder into the kitchen, as if worried someone will hear them. It’s not the first time they’ve done so.
“Ronny?” you repeat, innocently.
Bobby scrunches their nose up. “Come on, don’t be dense, you lunkhead. Our mutual friend. My boss. Your boyfriend.” They sigh, as if it pains them to say it. “I, Ronaldini?”
Hearing the name, you grin. It smooths out any wrinkles in your heart. “My great and terrible lover, yes! What about?”
“I think something’s up with him. Like, emotionally.”
You don’t mean to laugh at Bobby, but you can’t help but chuckle. The thought is absurd. I, Ronaldini is nothing but confident and pleased with himself. You’ve only ever seen him frown for show; his usual expression is an enchanting, mischievous smile.
“Hey, it’s not funny!” Bobby flicks at the candelabra in annoyance; mercifully unlit, it tips over and you hear a faint Egad!
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I, Ronaldini is just so secure.”
“Well, I got my reasons to believe otherwise,” says Bobby. “Like, okay, one of my jobs as Ronny’s ‘lovely assistant’ is to look after his rabbit sometimes.”
“What is that rabbit’s name, anyway?”
Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know. ‘Product of Canada,’ maybe. Because that’s what the tag I found on its little hat said.”
“That’s cute,” you say. And you genuinely mean it. You don’t care where I, Ronaldini is from. It’s one fewer mystery surrounding him, sure, but I Ronaldini is layers upon layers of mystery; he can spare one. And knowing that he’s from somewhere slightly exotic (assuming iron and board came as a set) does make him that much more exciting.
“Wasn’t so cute when I asked him about it. He sorta deflated like he was a balloon and… ya know, I stuck him. Eyes got all wet and his mustache did that thing that mustaches do, when the ends kind of droop to reflect their wearer’s emotions.” Bobby rolls their eyes. “Then he pretended to get really mad. He started steaming and threatened to curse me or whatever if I ever mentioned it to anyone.”
“You’re mentioning it to me,” you point out, trying not to swoon from the thought of your lover putting on such a heated performance.
“That’s because, A, he can’t really curse me. And B, if anyone’s gonna be able to get through to him, it’s you! You’re dating. Doesn’t that mean you have deep talks about feelings long into the night or something?”
You don’t. Yours and I, Ronaldini’s is a romance fueled by passion, mostly, and no other feelings. Your “talks” are mostly bombastic speeches he gives about what he would do to you if he had an audience, followed by him doing those things to you anyway. The single-minded zeal and lust you experience around I, Ronaldini is so intense you’d think he’d hypnotized you.
Which, granted, would be incredibly hot.
You don’t admit any of this to Bobby. When you try to form the words, they dry up, and you realize you’re embarrassed. The relationship just seems so surface-level when it’s put like that. There’s nothing wrong with a shallow, physical fling, of course, but you tell everyone that you’re in love with I, Ronaldini. Can that really be true when the two of you haven’t emotionally connected? And what is this you’re feeling right now - that you want to know what’s under the facade of greasepaint and fog?
“Can you talk to him before our next show?” Bobby begs with large puppy dog eyes. “I can’t deal with him being all mopey for another minute.”
You hold out your hand. “I’ll talk to him,” you promise. Bobby spits in their hand before shaking yours to bind you to it. They really don’t need to, though. You’re ready for this relationship of yours to have more substance.
You are a bundle of nerves as you approach the ironing board, conscious of everything. You even pick at your clothes, looking for wrinkles, even though they’ve never been smoother than since you started dating I, Ronaldini. Determined as you are to confront him about what Bobby told you, you’re out of your depth with the emotional stuff. Part of you was relieved that I, Ronaldini was so receptive to your flattery and flirtation so quickly, as opposed to the other objects in the house who required an entire emotional questline before they’d even consider you a friend. What the two of you have is easy, and what you’re about to do will complicate everything.
Are you truly ready to do that?
You get on your knees before the little door and call for I, Ronaldini the way he instructed you to: “Oh, my fearsome lover, I, Ronaldini, I have come humbly to ask for your audience!”
Steam fills the kitchen, curling out from beneath the sink and from between cabinet doors. It obscures your vision and invades your lungs, although you’re so used to it by now that it hardly makes you cough anymore. Intellectually you know that he is hiding behind that little door, but when I, Ronaldini springs from the fog like a bouquet of flowers from a sleeve, it’s as if he formed from the aether itself. You almost hear him before you see him, as he hisses, “My little bunny. You’ve returned!” He wears a dark expression as his face comes into view, mustache devilishly curled and sharp eyebrows slanted downwards. He bows to you, waving his cape in a flourish.
“I have,” you say, awe nearly stealing your words away.
I, Ronaldini straightens. He extends his arm and his rabbit leaps from his hat, landing expertly on his palm. As ever, you feel its beady black eyes judging you. “Bearing what news?” says I, Ronaldini. “Some valuable item vanished from your possession? Aftershocks of pleasure following you into the new day?” He pauses. Hesitates. It’s barely a moment, but it is a crack in his veneer of confidence and those are so rare as to be noticeable. “Some salacious morsel of gossip fallen from the lips of a treacherous hair accessory?” He grins wickedly, and just like that the cracks have been sealed. “I claim responsibility for them all.”
You are as much enraptured by him as you are embarrassed. Your blood feels like ice, in only the most thrilling way, as he pulls the confession out of you like so many handkerchiefs. “You… you saw me talking to Bobby, didn’t you?”
“Ah, yes, the Great Bobbini.” I, Ronaldini shakes his head and doffs his hat, as if lamenting that Bobby even has to be a topic of conversation. “A talented escapologist, that one, but as yet unlearned in the art of keeping their secrets. They underestimated my stealth, my knowledge of all! Even you did not notice mine eyes gazing upon your parlance from the shadows!” He coughs. “The dining room is in direct line of sight from my dressing room, you know.”
“We were fools not to realize.”
“So you were,” says I, Ronaldini. “And the subject of your discussion? The words you shared in tones most hushed? I dare not assume to be the only matter on either of your minds, being, as the two of you are, Friends most dear. But I have taken to wonder, to suspect, as it were.” He hesitates, yet again. This time it’s a longer pause, and you see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously. “Were you talking about me?”
This time, he does not right himself after faltering in confidence. You see what Bobby was describing, the glassy eyes and the drooping mustache. He trembles, and although he’s trying to maintain his grin, his teeth are chattering. Even the rabbit curls up on his arm as much as its plastic body will allow, ears covering its fearsome eyes. And you’re struck by just how pathetic I, Ronaldini looks like this.
Look, you’re not stupid. You’re known from the beginning that the great and terrible magician thing is just a performance. But it was that act, grandiose and over-the-top and powerful, that attracted you to him in the first place. It doesn’t matter that he was made in Canada, sure. But if you get him to admit that much, what other layers of mystery is he going to remove next? Does he come from a huge family of practically identical ironing boards? Does he like to knit and collect stamps in his free time? Is his favorite food a bland pot roast? Does he cry himself to sleep?
You take in the wilting string bean in front of you and suddenly the prospect of an emotional conversation makes your stomach curdle. Bobby be damned, you’re fine with keeping this illusion up. “The Great Bobbini,” you say, “was only looking for advice on how to wear their hair for your next show. No need for concern.”
Relief washes visibly over I, Ronaldini. He almost looks like he’s about to break down and cry, but luckily he catches himself before he can display his vulnerability. “I have told them repeatedly that they ought to go bigger. After all, if anyone can keep their hair in a proper bouffant, it’s them.”
You smile placatingly, hiding your own relief as I, Ronaldini composes himself, replacing his hat and the rabbit and crossing his arms in a dominant stance. “Now,” you say, “what was this about a valuable item vanishing?”
“Oh, I’ll never tell,” says I, Ronaldini. His tone is almost indulgent as he silently thanks you for keeping the facade up for the both of you. “Now, would you look at the time?”
You take a pointed look at your watch (an admittedly cheap thing with an admittedly very cute image of a stretching black cat on the face). It’s not particularly late or early, and you’re about to remark on this when I, Ronaldini snaps his fingers and the watch vanishes into thin air. You look up when you hear a yawn and a sleepy “Nya…” coming from the inside of the dressing room.
“You cad!” you exclaim. “How on earth…?”
“A magician never… well, you know the rest.” I, Ronaldini turns to free Timmy from the confines of the ironing board door with a flourish of his cape. As the ostentatious garment billows behind him, you notice a tag on the inside of it. …of Ca… is all you manage to make out.
You avert your eyes, pretending not to see. Sometimes, a magician can use a little help with his diversions.