There are elves among us, and I regularly encounter them.

My most recent elf experience was last Friday, as I was standing in line at the post office. I was preparing to mail our tax returns to the State and the Feds via certified mail—ho hum.

The man in front of me turned and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

I briefly considered the request. He looked harmless enough: probably mid- to late-sixties, receding grayish-white hair, twinkling blue eyes, a bit of a pot belly straining the short-sleeved blue plaid shirt that was more or less tucked into a pair of worn blue jeans. I decided not to be a smart-aleck and point out that he had just asked me a question, and said, “Sure.”

His eyes lit up as he pulled two cardboard swatches from his front pants pocket, one red, one blue. They were both curved, and looked like segments from a circle. “Which one of these would you say is bigger?”

I figured there was some trick to this. Probably they were the same size. But the red one—the one on my right—looked bigger, so I said so.

“They’re the same size!” he crowed, placing them together so I could see for myself. “It’s an optical illusion. Because the long curve of the red card is near the short curve of the blue one, it looks bigger!”

“Wow,” I said.

“Here,” he said, handing them to me. “You can show them to your kids. Do you have kids?” I shook my head no. “Well, your husband then.”

“Thank you. Now I’m a magician.”

“Yes, and you didn’t even have to take any lessons!” he twinkled at me.

I had noticed by now that there were some religious references on the back of the cards. I was surprised: usually the elves I meet are not particularly religious. More pagan than anything. I carefully placed them in my purse anyway and nodded to him.

He smiled and turned back around—somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to me. A few moments later he turned back. “Do you mind if I ask you another question?”

I braced myself. Was he going to stop being an elf and ask me something religious? Perhaps something relating to Jesus and my relationship or lack thereof with Him?

“Uh, sure,” I said, stepping back a bit. I guess I was making room for the question, or, I don’t know, a hasty get-away. I could always mail the taxes another time.

He leaned forward. “How tall are you?”

“Oh!” I could breathe again. (And oh, thank you for not asking me something to which I’d have to answer, “None of your business”; and oh, thank you for asking me a question I can answer; and oh, thank you for remaining an elf.) “I’m just under six foot.”

“Wow!” he said, and twinkled some more. “I guess you get asked that a lot.”

“Not so much any more,” I admitted, “although I can see people wanting to ask.” And still feeling so grateful that my height was his only concern, I went on. “Actually, in groups of tall people, I’m considered pretty short. There are plenty of women taller than I am out there.”

“And your husband, is he tall?”

“Nah,” I scoffed. “He’s only 6’1.5″, so he’s short, too.”

The elf chuckled.

We exchanged information about whether we lived in the neighborhood. I no longer live there as I now live in the country (aka Scripps Ranch). Meanwhile, he lives in Tacoma, Washington, but is in San Diego for a while with his wife. They are living with his mother-in-law and taking care of her. Although I haven’t been to Tacoma, we agreed that Seattle is a beautiful city.

Then we were both called to our respective post office windows. “Nice meeting you!” he tossed over his shoulder.

“You, too!” I tossed back.

I read the religious stuff on the backs of the cards later. Nothing too onerous, and I decided to take them in the broadest sense that I think he meant them: that he wishes me well.

I, of course, wish all elves well.