I’m pretty sure bubbles are magic, and he was well versed in the art.

Inflating with a gentle glide of the wrist, seeming to come alive as they floated. Wobbling from nondescript to shapes that, for moments, appeared a cloud, or a hippo, or flower. Then as quick as they came would wobble back to blobs undulating in the breeze.

When I thought to check the time, two hours had passed, since his floating films of soap first caught my eye. The awareness of how entranced I had become, how distracted from my evening walk, rose unexpectedly from the depths of my consciousness. Thoughts no longer encompassing me were becoming clear. How carefully I noted the distorted reflections across their surface. Wondering how much the apparent objects were formed by the bubbles shape, or by the streaks of clouds and burning sky contouring the iridescent planes.

My feet moved to leave — to get home to my family, to my book and evening tea. Then, some time later, I found myself lost again: in awe of this Sorcerer of Soap, this Artist of Light and Air, conjuring from the elements these objects serene.

As the light faded the bubbles dimmed, though somehow the objects manifested no less clear. The warm light of sunset now deep gradients of blue, speckled with glimmering stars and distant street lights.

And the magician of bubbles carried on, waving his soapy wands with grace. Forms inflating and lifting from their rings, shimmering into moments of wonder before collapsing in the night.

When I came to again, I found the park had quieted, and his audience dwindled. Only I — and a few ducks sitting on the lakeshore — remained witness to his work.

As if feeling my awareness shift, he took his eyes from the bubble he’d just released, watched me for a moment, then smiled. Without much thought, and after some hesitation, I stepped forward and opened my mouth, but struggled to find words.

“Hello.” He said softly, a bit surprised. “You’ve been watching for a while.”

“How do you do it?” I found myself blurting out. “Those shapes. They’re so… defined.”

He took a moment — looking up at the bubble shifting from a strawberry to formlessness — as if considering it for the first time. “How does your mind know when to wake, or your chest when to breathe? Or your mouth and tongue dance together, giving form to sound?”

I was taken aback by the question. “I — I don’t know.” I muttered.

“Nor do I.” He said, truthfully, then paused to find the words. “Only that it requires my presence. And beyond that, no decision is mine.”

We exchanged a few words more, and I thanked him deeply. Then I made my way home.

I offered him money but he wouldn’t accept it — claiming his work was reward enough. How could that be? I thought, and insisted, but he only returned a smile.

His words rang in my mind for the rest of the night. Bringing waves of joy, confusion, and utter frustration. It was a lovely thought, to be sure, but did he really not understand how his objects were formed? Would he have me believe it was not an act of intention? An ability which he worked tirelessly to acquire? That something so marvelous could instead be magically bestowed, so to spontaneously discover oneself in possession of?

I look for him now when I pass through the park, hoping for answers, or just to witness those bubbles again. But I haven’t seen him since.

I asked around too, and can’t find anyone else who was there that night, or has otherwise heard of anyone like him.

Eventually I settled into a kind of half-baked belief, that what I experienced was magic, or that there exists more of the world which I don’t understand.

But still, it occurs to me now, there’s something else that’s stuck with me. Something I’ve thought might have come from watching for him, and faded into a general watching of the world. I often find myself noticing things I didn’t before. Small things, like the way the light scatters as the sky fades to night, or the rhythm of a leaf that rattles in the wind, or how watching ripples on the lake makes me feel — like movement and stillness can exist all at once.