things we

A Modern Day Witch

Artwork by Lauren Robin

I knew the way to the backroom speakeasy, but when she took my hand I let her lead me through the restaurant anyway. Looking back on our last date, I’m glad I did. It was Downtown L.A.; overpriced drinks are a small price to pay for any added romance.

The mixologist, a short woman with choppy black hair, made me a pink gin cocktail. She took her time, but it felt like I was watching a modern day witch. I don’t remember what Zoe ordered, but that might have been because my drink tasted like rubbing alcohol. I even told Zoe that, and she laughed and asked why I didn’t try something else.

I said my drink was too pretty to ignore. She said she felt the same about me.

“Paying Paul was a real speakeasy. So they say.” Hushed conversations from other tables and a jazz pianist as the only background noise made conversation easy, but still Zoe leaned closer. “Half the bars in L.A. say the same, but here it feels like it’s true.”

“Back to Robbing Peter then,” I said, turning to order another round. We ended the night at my place. It was a type of magic, how a date could go on forever but end too soon.

Los Angeles robs you blind. I pity every person who has the misfortune to fall in love with or within this city—a fact that has forced me to spend long portions of each day feeling sorry for myself.

Like most people, I blame my parents for most of my misery. Lydia is a naturalist, reader of classics, and most importantly, a mountain climber. She could never live anywhere but California. I met my father during a brief visit to the east coast when I was twelve. One encounter left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a cynicism I never shook.

Lydia always said the same thing. “Isobel, one day, you’re going to grow up, meet the right person, and fall in love.” In high school I started to realize the chances of those things happening in that order grew slimmer with each year.

Instead, the foreseeable future is filled with dates in secret bars everyone has heard of and concerts that pass like fever dreams. That’s how it is, people insist; end of story. Kinder friends assured me being endlessly ghosted, disappointed, or both didn’t mean there was anything wrong with me. That’s how it is.

Our first date was at the Triple Moon Bar. Floor space was almost nonexistent, but the ceiling was cathedral high. Liquor bottles sit on the shelves, catching the light.

The password was Wiccan, which hardly came as a surprise. On the wall, there was a framed dictionary definition for transformation—1: A marked change in form, nature, or appearance.

I remember thinking how Zoe had the roundest eyes I’ve ever seen. She had the frame of a ballerina, and carried herself with the best posture I’ve ever seen. Now I wonder if her poise doesn’t come from dance at all, but rather her absolute conviction in her powers as a witch.

“I’ve always looked at is as a means of spiritual growth,” Zoe said.

I nodded. Truthfully, everything she said about witches reminded me of Lydia’s surface level interest in Buddhism. My mother, for all her love of the planet, is one of the only honest-to-god wealthy outdoorsy people I’ve ever met. She likes the aesthetics of Buddhism, but not the asceticism.

I told Zoe I liked her—actually liked her—which was why we shouldn’t sleep together. Yet. Zoe agreed with everything I said, and somehow we ended up at her place. We left a light on, and I could hear her neighbors practicing their set list through the wall.

The last time I saw Zoe was at a candle craft class she taught. I don’t count it as a date. A week after that, I got a text from her saying I shouldn’t fall in love with her, that she wasn’t a nice girl.

I stared at the message in a state of endless confusion. Had I said anything about love? We had been on a few dates. I had asked her about being a witch. We hadn’t mentioned love once.

Her Instagram was filled with pictures of her standing, gazing up at redwood trees, or else with her back to wall art. She had given herself the title witchy feminist queen, and included a link to her website.

Who’s a witch? Your cousin. Your barista. Maybe you are too, though you haven’t realized it yet. I could almost read the paragraph in her voice. I scrolled down. Witchcraft is, above all, sex-positive. Witch-hunts have shown how women comfortable with their sexuality have been persecuted by men throughout history.

I shut my laptop on Zoe. I had a thousand projects to edit—a friend’s music video, an informational video on my school’s health center, not to mention my looming documentary project, but I needed to do that with a clear head. And, after work, there was a thousand other things to occupy my mind with—a friend to meet for lunch, a party to get ready for, a new date to set.

It was magic, how fast L.A. could make a person disappear.

—

Erica Macri is a 21-year-old writer studying English and Economics at Boston College. She is a New Jersey native who has always felt like she has one foot in New York. Erica has an affinity for redwood trees, window seats, and dogs of all sizes.

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