I dated a witch once.
Mind you, I was never presented with an actual letter of authenticity other than her Match.com profile in which she identified herself as such. Being I was only shelling out like twenty bucks a month, I figured it was great value- to meet a witch, even a self professed one.
It was early on that I began to doubt the veracity of this witch business. She owned an impressive collection of books, yet try as I might I couldn’t find a single copy of damnable proof. No pentagram puzzles, no How To Hex Books, No Wicca for Dummies, no Jong or Rice . . not even a Rowling.
The only witchcraft I witnessed came when we would steal the moon away by holding court in never sleep coffee shops. We would immerse ourselves in these thick and varied conversations- from politics to music to the sitcom as cockroach.
She would rant on about how she wanted to emulate Salinger’s success as an author one day. Write a novel and then disappear into the ‘burbs.
I didn’t really believe her when she said these things. It felt more like a caked up postulate, a pipe dream she could accessorize to fit her mood. Pretending you don’t want to be famous is a favorite pastime of people who desperately want to be famous. It doesn’t make you a witch. Unless we’re talking Kate Gosselin.
Thing was, she engendered such an espirit jeune that I found it impossible not to believe whatever she said. She also happened to possess these sensational legs.
Her stories were groovy expeditions; especially the ones where she would rappel into adventurous vignettes. Such as the cross country trip she took or the time she bummed around France for a month on city benches and hostels, living on cigarettes and crusty bread and getting by on her good looks and long legs.
See, here’s the thing. Women concern themselves with stuff like finances . . children . . commitment. A guy worries about legs. Meeting legs, getting to know legs, holding on to legs- figuratively, literally, perpetually. The truth is, when it comes to perspective? Men rent the space that women own outright. So for those of you who really believe all that shit about men ruling the world? Go back to sleep.
Ask a guy about global warming and he might be able to give you eight seconds worth of opinion. Ask the same guy about legs, and then pull up a chair, bake a cake, take a nap, call your relatives in California and go visit them while you’re at it.
I remember the night when she convinced me that she was, in fact, a witch. We were sitting along this grassy bank overlooking a pond and waxing metaphysical, when she removed herself from my embrace and began undressing before plunging into the water.
In that moment, I was ashamed of myself for ever having doubted her.