The obvious thing, really, was that the man in the fedora was a magician.
I would have known this if I’d seen him on the street or the subway, or shopping for zucchini at Key Food. I would have known if he, fedora-clad and decked in silver jewelry like a latter-day Criss Angel (add to notes: Was this actually Criss Angel?), had strode into view of my dentist’s chair in the last woozy seconds before I drifted off. But I know this beyond thinking, beyond suspecting, beyond fact-checking-your-mother’s-love certainty, because he, like me, had chosen to spend a Tuesday night at a magic show. And also because he told me. Kind of.