Manifest! Manifest! Manifest!

I worked nights, I slept late. It was summertime in Florida and it must have been the heat that woke me up. I was slippery with sweat. My window AC unit was dead. It didn’t matter. I just had the most electric connection with a woman that I had never even met. I’m not talking about sexting with someone on Tinder. This was literally the girl of my dreams.

She was sitting on the back patio of the restaurant where I worked. She had on a tight black dress and a beret with a feather in it. I really can’t stand those hats and I told her so. She just casually sipped her wine. I knew she had heard me because she was staring right at me. I was entranced as the mole above her upper lip raised slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was a smirk or a sneer. She started to speak and that’s when I woke up.

Immediately I reached for my sketch book. I remember feeling that if I could contain the memory somehow, I might be able to conjure her into existence. This was when I was still young of course, when I still believed there might be substance in things like fate and destiny. I also had a wack-a-doo theory that with practice, anyone could learn to draw or play guitar. I collage now, and play noise music. My point is that real magic is easier to believe in when you’re ignorant and gullible, and perhaps easier to perform.

When I’d finished the sketch, I painted the dress and gave her lips some color. To protect this magical token, I added a clear layer of what I thought was matte finish. It was actually glossy which gave a sheen to the piece that I didn’t particularly like, but I felt like trying to remake it at this point would take away from its power.

Months went by. I would flip through my sketchbook, occasionally lingering on my crude depiction of that strange goddess, and whisper, “manifest, manifest, manifest,” until the word no longer had any meaning. Then, embarrassed by my half-assed attempt at some sorcery, I would put it away to be forgotten again until the next time I cleaned my room.

This part of the tale may come as no surprise, but one day while I was at work, she appeared. It was just like the dream. She had the dress, the hat, the mole, everything. Once again it was a hot summer day. Her skin glistened with sweat and I quickly had to yank the leash on my eyeballs as they followed the trail of a single bead racing down her ample bosom. Maybe the glossy finish wasn’t an accident after all.

I was speechless but I knew that I had to say something. Throwing caution to the wind, I cleared my throat and started towards her with the confidence of a man who didn’t realize he was covered in slop from washing dishes all day.

Her friends stopped laughing as I sauntered up to their table. She turned and looked deep into my eyes.

“What kind of wine are you enjoying?” I asked, trying to use my regular voice.

She raised an eyebrow and held the nearly empty bottle up to the light.

“It was a merlot.” Her voice was scratchier than I had imagined.

“Nice!” I replied. I couldn’t believe I was actually talking with the physical embodiment of my dream girl. Some might argue that I still wasn’t really.

She rolled her eyes. “Riiiight. So are you a waiter or something? Because we’re going to need another bottle of this pretty soon.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I work in the dish pit, but I can grab your server for you.”

“That would be great,” her friend chimed in.

“Oh, but I wanted to ask you,” I added, forming my hand into the shape of a pistol and pointing it at her, “could I cook you dinner sometime?”

What followed was the longest, most uncomfortable, “Uhhhhh,” that I’ve ever been privy to. It might still be going to this day if not for the explosive laughter of her friends.

“That’s a no,” I said, nodding my head in understanding.

I did an about-face and started back to the kitchen where I belonged. “Berets are so fucking stupid,” I whispered to myself.

“Hey!” she called after me.

I turned around and saw she was pouring herself the last of the merlot.

“Don’t forget to send our server over. Thank you!”

I shot my imaginary hand gun at her again.

I didn’t feel embarrassed. Truthfully, I was kind of relieved. The fact was, she wasn’t my type and I wasn’t hers. Maybe I had done magic, I just did it so poorly that I manifested something I never wanted in the first place. It wasn’t malintent, just terribly aimed.

When my shift was over and we were dividing the tips, the server who waited on their table asked me what had happened. I told her the whole story and she couldn’t stop laughing, but this time I was laughing too. We talked a while longer and then she asked if I would cook her dinner sometime. Long story short, I ended up dating her for almost a year. It ended quite devastatingly when she told me she was moving home to California, but in the time we had, she introduced me to the world of wine which I had previously ignored because I thought it was just for fancy people. I’m sure it won’t be the last time that wine was someone's silver lining.