Free Petty Magic by Camille Deangelis Page A

a trap. “Well, it was her friend’s birthday and she was picking up the tab. I watched her sign the credit card slip, and—”
    “Ah, so you’re an expert in graphology! No, no, go on, by all means. Hand me a napkin and I’ll sign my name.”
    He plucks a fresh napkin from a holder by his elbow. I pull out a fountain pen—“Got this at your shop, by the way”—and write “Eve” with an immodest flourish at the end. I hand him the napkin and as he looks at it a smile flits across his face.
    “Now, I suppose you’re about to tell me the long tail on my lowercase E is indicative of my generosity? Perhaps to a fault?”
    He stares at me.
    “Never fails, does it?”
    Justin clears his throat. “Not ’til now.”
    I take the last sip of my martini and pop the olive, chewing thoughtfully as I watch him fidget. “I wonder what you say if the girl’s name ends in some other letter. Then again, I suppose most girls make long tails on their As and Ys as well.”
    He’s now red as a beet. I don’t treat other men this way, of course—if I made a habit of this I’d never see any action.
    I feel a tingling in my fingers and toes. I’ve been ignoring this nagging feeling since we first sat ourselves at the bar. Running out of oomph is like running out of petrol: a smart motorist finds a fill-up station as soon as she sees the flash of the little red warning light, and I fear I’m running on fumes. You don’t want to see what would happen if I were to run out: within seconds I’d be standing in the middle of the bar looking like a threepenny hoor.
    “I’ve got to go home,” I say abruptly.
    “Now that your work here is done?” he says, but he is making a valiant attempt at a smile.
    “I’m sorry,” I say as I fumble for my pocketbook. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”
    “Oh, no?”
    “Well, I only meant to humble you a little. I’m afraid I overshot, though, and for that I apologize.”
    “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says as we exit the bar. “Can I walk you home?”
    “Thank you, but your place is in the opposite direction.”
    “But I’d rather walk y—”
    “No, honestly, Justin, I appreciate the gesture but I’m in a hurry now. There’s something I’ve forgotten to do at home and so I’ve got to run.”
    “Oh,” he says. “Well, I won’t keep you. Wait—just one thing. Is there any point in my asking for your cell number?”
    “There isn’t, but only because I don’t have one.”
    “Really!” He’s fascinated, impressed even. “I’m always talking about getting rid of mine. There’s something not right about being able to be reached at any place, at any hour. Could I have your e-mail address then?”
    “I don’t have one of those either.”
    “What! How am I going to keep in touch with you?”
    I laugh. “I do have a telephone, you know.”
    I pull my pen out of my purse, grab his hand, and write my number on his palm as he’s saying, “But what if you’re not at home?”
    “Then you’ll leave a message and I’ll ring you back. That’s what they did in the old days, you know.”
    “Is this a phony number you’re giving me?”
    “Would I give you a phony number if I wanted to see you again?”
    “Uh-oh. She’s not answering my question.”
    “Call it and find out. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” I bid him good night and hurry up the avenue toward home as that awful tingling spreads up my legs. My backward transformation is imminent.
    I stumble through my bedroom door, slam it behind me, and wriggle out of my frock just as my skin is beginning to pucker. I put on an old silk robe and totter into the bathroom, where I smear on the Pond’s without looking in the mirror.

The White Witch
    10.
Berlin, 1930s

    M Y NEIGHBORS called me die weisse Hexe —the white witch. I had upwards of a dozen callers a day, many of whom were repeat visitors. I even felt a certain degree of affection, born of familiarity, for the middle-aged women who asked if