"Lachesis, measurer of the Threads of Fate, hear my plea."

It was only seven days ago when I made that request. I had been studying Wiccan magic for almost a year. Funny thing about spell-casting; spells are really simple. If you want to request something, you can burn a candle and make your request from the Goddess, or you can leave an offering, a flower, a coin, maybe a little wine, under a tree. The trick is not to make your request too specific.

I had myself a nice data base of my local coven's requests. The exact words used and the percentage chances that their request was fulfilled. I made it all nice and scientific. One word of advice: Science and Magic do not co-exist very well.

Oh, you'd think they would join hand in hand and skip through the fields, since basically Science is the in-depth study of nature and how everything works, and Magic is the manipulation of nature for ones own ends. See my train of thought?

The final data analysis pointed to two patterns: simplicity and ego-feeding. You shouldn't ask for anything in specific. No Ferrari's, no winning numbers for the lotto, and so on. Instead, you should ask for good judgment in matters of finance. The ego-feeding portion is the gods need for attention. The gods and goddesses are very vain and their egos exceedingly fragile. Any request you make should carry with it a strong measure of brownnosing.

"I am your humble supplicant. Your beauty is beyond measure and your wisdom second to none. Please accept this small token of my affection for consideration of this modest request."

See what I mean ... lay it on thick.

My offering was a glass of the finest French wine.

"Please let me meet and know my true love."

There it was, my request. Simple.

~*~

The following day I was eating my lunch in Lincoln Park, by the fountain. The sun was obscured by a passing cloud and the fountain had been cleaned recently, so there wasn't a smell of stagnant algae. A street entertainer had chosen a plot of cement close by to play for his daily fare, and many people had gathered to watch.

My view was blocked, but my interest had been in a book I had taken along, so I hadn't been disappointed. At least until the crowd had gotten so big that people started using the fountain to see. That's when my sandwich got squished.

"Hey!" I remember saying. "Watch it!"

I followed the white running shoes to the blue scrubs and ultimately to the mop of brown curls atop his head. My lungs stopped functioning properly, because I couldn't continue my complaint.

The one thing I think I'll remember most about my sandwich squisher was his kind smile.

"I'm sooo sorry. I wasn't watching what I was doing."

That's okay, just marry me and we'll call it even.

I was that stricken by his voice.

"I'm Jim Harrison." He offered his hand.

He had taken mine and gently shook it, placing his other hand atop for a more dramatic effect, I assumed.

"You have to let me make it up to you."

I don't remember saying anything, just nodding.

"How about dinner, tonight."

I do remember audibly gulping.

He laughed softly. "I'll take that as a yes."

I nodded again.

He had reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card. "Here's my card. Call me this afternoon and we'll set up a time and place." He looked at me thoughtfully. "I'll understand if you change your mind -- me being a total stranger and all, but I'd really like to make it up to you."

I had dumbly nodded again and put the card in my purse.

"What's your name?" He asked.

I finally had found the courage to actually speak. "Kris, Kris Sullivan."

He had taken my hand again. "Ms. Sullivan it was a pleasure meeting you and I hope to hear from you."

He smiled again for effect and dashed off.

~*~

I sat at my work station in total bewilderment, staring at his card. He is a neurosurgeon. I had scored the jackpot, the lotto, and every other unattainable goal there ever was. He was gorgeous, intelligent, and most probably very rich.

I had waited until two o'clock to call. I didn't want to seem over eager. It was a good thing I did, because he had just returned from a consultation. We arranged to have dinner at Savarros, a nice Italian restaurant near my apartment so that I would have time to freshen up after work.

Luckily my boss had overheard the conversation, at least my end of it, and witnessed my excitement. Being somewhat of a friend, he knew I was having trouble finding the right guy and was sympathetic to the cause.

After another hour at work he gave me the rest of the afternoon off. I sped to my apartment and took a quick shower, obeying all of the feminine niceties. I found the sexiest outfit I could that still held a modicum of modesty, and finished the preparation off with a flowery scent I had purchased for just the occasion.

Our arrangement had us meeting at the restaurant at seven o'clock and I had wanted to leave a little early to make sure I had time to freshen up once I arrived. Savarros was only two blocks west of the apartment so I decided not to take a cab and perhaps enjoy a bit of evening air along the way.

Pedestrian traffic was a bit low as the last of the extended-hour commuters made their way home for the evening. I nodded greetings to some of my neighbors and tried to keep my pace unhurried. Within ten minutes I had arrived at the intersection that held the restaurant. The crosswalk signal switched to walk and I made my way across the street alone.

Apparently the driver that hit me didn't notice my right of way.

~*~

I spent the better part of ten hours in surgery. My back was broken in five places, my hip was dislocated, and I have 35 stitches in my scalp. I don't think I ever saw the driver coming until it was too late. There wasn't much pain, just darkness.

Wondering about Jim? I've seen him every day for the last five days. He's my doctor. Except he really doesn't know it is me. See, when the ambulance brought me to the emergency room, the doctors there stripped me of all of my feminine niceties: my false breasts, my make-up, my waist cincher, everything. In order for the doctors to put the stitches in my scalp they had to shave away a good portion of my hair, so now I look like the boy of eighteen I was, five years ago.

I could tell Jim who I am, but that would require the use of my voice. The broken back took care of that for me. I don't have the use of anything anymore.

The days pass on, one after the other. Jim comes by about once a week now to check up on me. I've gotten to meet and know my true love, but he knows nothing about me.

Dear goddess Atropos, cutter of the Threads of Fate, please hear my plea...