"Of course I know what I want in a man. I've only been angsting over it since puberty."

Kimber Andrews opened her wallet and withdrew a small, laminated card with ‘Kimber's Perfect Man’ printed in bold letters at the top. She had painstakingly crafted the list in college, and took it out for regular review on occasions when having the elusive Perfect Man in her life would come in handy. Holidays, reunions, Sunday afternoons at a gallery or a theater matinee, family functions, late at night while lying alone in bed, or, like now, on her birthday. The card reminded her of what she could never seem to find.

She cleared her throat and began. "He must be kind, generous, incredibly sexy, completely alpha, tall and muscular with broad shoulders and big thighs, intelligent, funny, accent nice but optional, dominant in bed—"

"Jeeze, Kimber, that's what every woman wants. Although I'm more partial to Beta's, myself." Her best friend, Tiff Douglas, grinned suggestively. If there was such a thing as a female chauvinist pig, Tiff qualified. "I mean, do you know what would make a guy special for you?"

Kimber narrowed her eyes at her friend, suddenly and acutely aware that Tiff was being uncharacteristically nosey even for her. They were ensconced at their favorite patio table in their favorite Italian restaurant — Il Cartese — sipping white wine and enjoying the scents of sauce and fresh bread as they waited for the main course to arrive. It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm, late winter afternoon in Northern California, and the bright sunshine poured in through the floor to ceiling windows around them. Perfect weather to celebrate the glory of love on the upcoming holiday.

"I would know him if I saw him," she finally replied. No matter what answer she gave, Tiff would take it as a sign that whatever she was about to do was precisely the right thing. Her best friend would have consulted Kimber's horoscope before she bought her present, and remembering that morning's entry in the local paper heightened the sinking sensation in Kimber's belly.

Today is the day for a radical change, Pisces. You tend to live in your head, and miss out on the best that life has to offer. Cut your hair. Buy an outrageous pair of shoes. Book a singles cruise to the Caribbean. Whatever it is, make it big, and make it permanent!

Tiffany Douglas, practicing Witch, was very big on signs and fate. As she drew a piece of paper out of her Prada bag and laid it on the table, a flash of victory lit her fine WASP features, and her smile made the fine hairs on the back of Kimber's neck stand on end in dread over what might be coming next.

A piece of pink paper covered in her best friend's loopy scrawl was not exactly the Valentine's Day present Kimber had imagined when she agreed to come to lunch. But she wasn't one to complain... or speak up much at all, really, as evidenced by the wilted lettuce and single slice of over-ripe tomato on her plate trying to pass as a ‘garden salad’. Usually Il Cartese had such great food that she'd feel stupid sending back one little salad. Why make waves over something so minor?

The paper was an expensive linen kind, like lawyers used. She couldn't read a word of the strange symbols scribbled all over the page, and that in itself hitched her anxiety up a notch.

"Um. Thanks, Tiff. This is, uh... pretty." No need to be rude. At least it wasn't a ticket for a singles cruise to the Caribbean or some other embarrassing attempt to set Kimber up with random strangers.

Tiff grinned, her sparkling teeth shining like tiny white suns against the smooth, tanned landscape of her face. "It's a ritual."

Oh, dear. Kimber gulped and tucked a wayward clutch of curls behind one ear. She respected her best friend's spirituality, really she did. She baked Samhain cakes for the beloved dead and had a Yule log on the Solstice every year to show just how much. She was not, however, completely comfortable with the concept of Magick (not to be confused with magic, as performed by David Copperfield). Probably a residual of her Presbyterian upbringing, though she wasn't much of a churchgoer anymore. Or maybe it was the fact that Tiffany didn't exactly have the best record with spell casting.

At an even bigger loss of what to say now, she asked, hardly wanting to know, “A ritual for what?"

Her best friend gave a woeful sigh and crossed her slender, twenty-mile-long legs, revealing her brand new Christian Louboutin pumps. "What have you wished for on every birthday since we were twelve and saw The Outsiders a dozen times?"

"That Ralph Macchio would come and take me away from all of this?"

"No." Tiff laughed. "That you would find your Prince Charming and all that happy horse-pucky. This ritual, according to my HP, is guaranteed to draw him to you." She tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on the parchment for emphasis.

‘Guaranteed?' The last time Tiffany's ‘HP’ — High Priestess — had ‘guaranteed’ magick to work for them, she and Tiff had added too much rosemary to a diet spell and ended up with diarrhea for a week. Which did result in the desired weight loss of ten pounds — but was completely not worth the agony.

Magickal guarantees didn't really make Kimber feel better about the product. Not to mention the fact that casting a spell to find a date seemed one step lower on the Pathetic Loser scale than hanging a sign declaring ‘Please! Men wanted ASAP!’ outside her apartment door.

"Oh. Tiff, that's so..." Kimber’s caution and growing sense of dread warred with her good manners and gratitude for Tiff's ongoing attempts to help her find romantic bliss. It was a lack Tiff never seemed to feel, as she preferred having a small stable of regular, non-exclusive ‘Fuck Buddies’ to keep her company. Men were lining up from here to Cape Cod hoping to join the team. "Um... nice. Thank you."

Good breeding always won out.

Tiff gave her a knowing look. "You have to do it tonight — it's Valentine's Day, and the full moon. There's no better time to start a new project of the heart. Besides, I'll be personally insulted if you don't."

Kimber turned the paper over, finding an ingredient list and a translation written on the back in clear block letters. It looked harmless enough — a few candles, some incense, a ritual bath and some ‘I love me’ sort of affirmations. No toil and trouble in sight, and not even a flake of rosemary.

She looked up into Tiff's blonde/blue supermodel features and lamented her own squat, girly, earth-toned ones. Her pinchable chipmunk cheeks, her too-big — like, Precious Moments, Anime-character big — hazel eyes, unmanageable mouse-brown hair, and puffy, no-I-swear-it's-not-collagen lips. Like a mirror of Tiffany — in Polar Opposite Land. It was the same with their personalities — Tiffany's was a huge, sparkling guy magnet everywhere she went, while Kimber's was tiny and cowering, and only came in handy for bonding with the nearest clump of geeks hiding in the corner.

The way she'd chosen to live her life seemed much sadder than usual, all of a sudden. Here she was, 35 years old and still single, with only two ‘real’ relationships—that is, lasting more than three months—under her Kmart special belt, and her only prospect for Valentine's Day excitement was getting drunk and spending the evening masturbating to her Gerard Butler DVD collection.

She scanned the list again. A quick stop at the grocery store, and she could get all of this before dinner time, putting her in the tub just before moonrise when the ritual was supposed to begin.

"It's great, Tiff. Thank you. I'll do it tonight."

"Yay!" Tiff squealed, and nearly plowed their ‘appetizer’ off the table reaching across to hug her. "My HP says you won't believe the results!"

Sorry, Gerard. Looks like you'll just have to pine for me until tomorrow night.