I’m not sure when I started stealing. I think I was born this way, theft running through my veins instead of blood. But other days, the days when I think about all the lives I must’ve ruined, I question if I was born for this. Maybe it started when I met John, the libertine bootlegger extraordinaire. I was twelve years old when I saw him, he had been walking with a tourist guide group and I noticed when he lifted a watch off the man next to him. He had been wearing this appalling orange Hawaiian shirt with, of course, a fanny pack slung around his waist. When I looked at this ugly, orange man, I saw my competition. So I decided to join the tourist group. I snuck in next to two families and slowly crept up behind John, tuning out the tour guide as he rambled about the many architecture styles of New York. I stuck my hand in his pocket, intending to take the watch he had stolen, but it wasn’t there. I looked up at him to find him smiling down at me, holding the watch.“Is this what you’re looking for?” His grin grew. He always reminded me of a father, with his tall frame, big beard and low voice that always sounded happy. Realizing that I had been caught, I turned around and ran. A couple weeks later, I saw him again, so I tried to lift his wallet. He caught me, again, and again, and again. Until he finally talked to me. He invited me to lunch, so we went to this little greasy diner.

    “So kid. I just realized I never asked your name.” He said while reading his menu.
    “Are you asking me a question?” I said, looking at him. He laughed.
    “Alright smarty pants, what’s your name?”
    “Asha,” I read my menu again.
    “Well, Asha, I’ve noticed that you’re quite the little thief. Do you work with other people?” I shifted at his question, shaking my head. He continued, “would you like to?” My head bolted up at the question just as a waitress appeared beside us.
    “What can I get y’all?” Her voice was heavy with a southern accent.
    “I’d like the corn beef hash, a coke,” John paused, leaning on his elbow and smiling up at the waitress “and your number.” I opened and closed my mouth, unsure of what I thought of this weird man (who was hitting on a waitress right in front of a stranger?). My eyes found the waitress. She was skinny and blonde, with amber brown eyes that flitted around her notepad as she wrote down his order.
    “And for you?” She ignored John and his question in favor of looking at me.  I ordered a stack of blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and a chocolate milkshake. She clicked her pen, threw me a smile, and left. John sighed, sitting up and meeting my eyes.
    “Did you really think that would work?” I giggled, resting my head on my chin. He huffed,
    “Oh yeah, laugh it up,” as a slow smile crept onto his face, eyes crinkling. “So are you interested in my offer?” I stopped laughing at the question, willing myself to be serious.
    “Are you a cop? You don’t seem like a cop. Besides, what’s in it for me?” John’s eyes shone in amusement.
    “Woah, woah, woah there kid. Okay, one, I don’t seem like a cop because I’m not one. And two, what’s in it for you is a warm bed, hot meals, and a chance to learn from experienced people.” He sounded like he was pitching something, and at that point, I had learned not to trust any salesmen, but my mind was too caught up in the pros. The waitress apparated back next to the table, making me jump, to set down our food.
    “There ya go, blueberry pancakes, a chocolate milkshake, corn beef hash, a coke-” John held his breath in anticipation, “and my number.” She smiled, running off before John started to gloat.
    “Ha! And to think you doubted my powers of seduction.” He grabbed his coke and proceeded to swallow the entire drink in three gulps, some spilling down his shirt. My response was incoherent noises and wheezing as I shook with laughter. That moment was when I knew I had to take him up on his offer.

    My fingers hovered over the glass case housing my target, a large albino cow skull covered in glitter (really though, what the hell was happening in the art world that would make this such a popular piece). My hand was cramping at the exact moment it needed to be not doing that. I was hanging 100 feet down from a glass ceiling, suspended mid air and swinging slightly. The worst thing about this situation was not that I was hanging 100 feet down from a glass ceiling, or that my hand was cramping, or even how horrible I looked under these unflattering flood lights. It was that I was swinging. I had noticed it the minute I began lowering myself down, and of course, I didn’t care and kept going. But then I noticed the lasers, and I had been too far down (and far too actively swinging) to retreat and go back up. So the question had come to mind, how the hell was I supposed to get out with the stupid bovine skull if my swinging would trigger the lasers on the way back up? And that is how I had arrived in my current position, fingers hovering over the glass case housing a piece of trash worth 2.5 million. A voice suddenly echoed through the large room,
    “Well, it seems you’ve gotten yourself into quite an unscrupulous predicament.” I try to crane my neck to find the voice’s origin, spotting a shadow standing in a door frame. The shadow seems to understand and steps into the light. My eyes widen as they take in a handsome figure wearing a feudal presence. I glance down at the case below me, thinking ‘if I’ve already been caught, I might as well make a run for it.’ My fingers lower to graze the glass, earning a groan from the man. “Do you mind sparing one moment before you go back to being a prig,” my eyes flutter back to meet his golden gaze.
    “Take a look in the mirror, you’re dressed like an nineteenth century vaudevillian, and you’re calling me a prig?” I snort, getting a better handle on the glass. The man begins walking closer,    
    “Listen here, I will not have some peasant just waltz in and decide to make bad decisions that would lead to ramifications I would have to deal with.” He glowered at me as my hand continued moving the glass.
    “First off, peasant? Really? Couldn’t come up with any better insult? And, I’m sorry, did you just call my repelling of a hundred feet a waltz? Would you like to try it? Because I guarantee it’s not as much fun as it looks.” My other hand slowly reaching down to grab the underside of the glass. He walked up the steps to the skull’s podium. His eyes meet mine, and suddenly I felt nervous, realizing how close he’d gotten. “So what, you’re the curator?” I stop my work, peering down at him. He emanates gold, rich olive skin, amber eyes, and honey brown hair, looking all but dazzling in the unflattering light. The distraught I saw earlier all but washed away from his golden form. I sigh, wondering how I must look right now, hanging upside down, slightly swaying, and agitated beyond belief from the amount of human interaction I’ve had on this mission.
    “I’m not just the curator.” Seeming more casual.
    “Then what are you?” I ask, dangerously giving him my full attention. His eyes shine, just for a moment, with playfulness.
    “I’m your undoing, serf.” He grins as he grabs my harness and unclips me before I can act. I cry out, as I’m launched right into the chest of the golden man. He stumbles backwards, catching me as I clutch the skull to my chest. He finds his balance and smiles down at me. For a moment, I lose myself in his eyes. Then I’m brought back to reality,
    “You do realize you just called me a farmhand, right?” I snort, “You seem to be quite lacking in the department of correct vocabulary.” His grin widens, as he starts to laughs. It feels like I’m being showered in gold, as his eyes light up. I forget I’m in a stranger’s arms for a moment, I start laughing too.
    “You are unbelievable. How did you even get past the vibration detectors?” Peering down at me with just a hint of admiration in his eyes. My grin grows,
    “A magician never reveals his tricks,” I wink portentously, continuing, “but I will say that they are now defunct.”  
    “Ah, well unfortunately, my considerably ineffable contingencies never did allow for magic as a component.” He glanced down at the skull in my hands.
    “That was your fatal mistake, my dear Watson.” Placing the skull in my jacket, I stepped down and out of his arms, leaping back onto the hanging rope and beginning to climb. “Goodbye, golden boy. It’s been fun, but I have a job to finish.” The juxtaposition of their lives bringing them back to reality. When I looked back down, I found him with an indiscernible look on his face.
    “Do you realize how much paperwork this means I’ll have to fill out?” The casualness returning to the conversation.
    “I’m sure you can figure it out!” I yell back as I go through the gap in the glass ceiling, disappearing into the night.