By Meagan Solis

The decision, for me, would be easy.

Steam rises from the pot on the stove, and I sing to myself: He loves me, he loves me not.

Instead of petals, I pluck eyelashes, one by one until the edges of my eyes are raw and jagged.

Not, and the last lash floats into the boiling liquid, where it’s enveloped in gaseous bubbles.

I reduce the potion like a rich caramel sauce, letting it get thick and golden, coat the spoon like lacquer. By tomorrow, if all goes well, it’ll coat his heart too, like a delicious candied apple that I can bite into whenever I want.

The only way to break the spell of the potion is a wooden stake through the heart.

I fill a syringe and inject the mix into the middle of a fat little chocolate cupcake. The ganache shines, a mirror, and when I look into it, even without eyelashes, I am the fairest of them all, can’t he see that? The cake goes into a simple box tied with twine.

The way to a man’s heart is through his gullet. I can see it already–he opens his door, and there’s my box, waiting on his doorstep. He never resists a snack, a good quality in a lover. The cake goes into his mouth. Chew, chew, swallow, sigh. Then he sees me, appearing through the morning mist like a dream vision, and I will float into his arms, and he will be mine, as I am already his. Our love will be a beautiful compulsion.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

I go to sleep and dream of his face. I want to wear his green eyes as jewels, I want to weave his straw-colored hair into a blanket.

While the moonlight still casts lavender shadows onto the grass, I wake up and creep into the village. The night is quiet and cool. I find his cottage and place the box in the middle of the square mat in front of his door, where it can’t be missed. Like a cat, I curl behind a rosebush near a tree. The foliage conceals me from view, but I can see the door to his cottage clearly. I wait for dawn to break, so that I will be the first woman he sees after the cupcake passes his lips.

An eternity passes, but the sun is finally rising, and although I am muddy and covered in brambles, I know that soon he’ll be unable to resist me. I can’t wait to kiss him, with his swollen chocolate tongue.

In the distance, a rooster’s cackle cuts through the silence of the new day. The cottage door opens. I’m thankful our village rises early.

He is tall, with permanently sleepy eyes, and when he stretches his tunic rises up and I get a glimpse of his soft paunchy stomach with a thatch of dark hair under the belly button. He runs his tongue over his teeth. He looks down at his feet and sees the box.

He bends to pick it up.

It’s in his hands, he’s untying the string.

A sing-song voice breaks through the morning air.

A voice?

I’m still hidden under the rosebush but even I can see she’s the type of woman who’s never had to concoct a love potion. She carries a basket of goat cheeses, and her chestnut hair sits on the top of her head like a bird’s nest, with a few curls escaping to dance against her long neck.

“Delivery,” she sighs, and I can see in her eyes that she’s in love with him.

He stammers a thanks, and that’s when I realize the cupcake is in his hand, and he’s stretching open his mouth to take a bite as she approaches, fishing a small cheese wrapped in basil leaves out of the basket.

The only way to break the spell of the potion is a stake through the heart.

I’m crouched behind the rosebush, like a jungle cat who’s ready to pounce. Sticks lie buried in the grass all around me, remnants of branches knocked off the tree that are now hidden under thorns and shriveled rose petals.

Some look sharp enough to pierce flesh.

He’s chewing. She stands there, holding her basket.

The lady or the tiger.

He loves me, he loves me not.

The decision, for me, is easy.

 

Meagan Solis is a writer living in Austin, Texas. Her work has been featured in Skin to Skin magazine, Raw Paw, The Sorin Oak Review, and adapted for stage production with The Transit Theatre Troupe. She is currently pursuing her undergraduate Literature degree at St. Edward’s University.

Photo by James Chavez-Sanchez.