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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Fantasy · #2238382
Every woman has the power within, but only reveals her spell upon the right occasion.
996 word entry to the "The Prompt Me Contest

The waiting room was bad enough. People staring into space. Nervous. No problem sitting six feet apart from each other. Worried is what they were. Troubled by whatever form of anxiety they were possessed by.

Patient coming out of the therapist’s office looked shell shocked. Walked like a zombie, feet shuffling, eyes glazed, mumbling something. Harriet Mulner caught only a word or two. Spoken like a magical chant. “Think positive.”

She got an elbow in the side from the fellow getting up for his turn. “Been waiting here hours. If he looks that bad coming out, wonder what he was like going in?” The man’s left eye winked into a nervous tic. A bit of drool slipped from the side of his mouth.

“Come in Missus Mulner. This your husband?” The voice was velvet soft, soothing, Expensive. Groomed. Professional.

Harriet woke up from her zoned out half blank state of mind to realize the psychologist was talking to her. “I do couples and groups on Thursday’s. He’ll have to wait outside.”

“We’re not married,” Harriet avoided looking at the fellow with his palsied shaking hands and trembling knees.

“Commitment issues,” responded Phil Turney, Ph.D.

He brushed the man aside, grabbed Harriet’s elbow, and ushered her into the plush carpeted grandeur of where he worked on people’s psyche’s. “Have a seat please. "So, you think you're a witch do you? Prove it!" said the psychologist. He began thumbing through the notes provided over the phone about her condition.

His tone of voice accused her of causing the obvious emotional turmoil of the man knocking his head against the wall in the waiting room. “Someone needs to help him.”

Harriet turned around, yanked open the soft hissing door before it closed, walked over and hit the stranger in the back of the head with her purse. “Go home. Put some ice on that goose egg I just gave you on your bald spot. Take a hot shower and go to bed. Things will look better in the morning.”

A twitch rippled its way down the man’s body. He shook his head as if coming out of a trance. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Harriet nodded, her purse swinging like a metronome at her side as the man leaned over to kiss her cheek in thanks and left. Others in the waiting room looked up eager for her to knock some sense into their skulls as well, like she had cast a spell over them.

“You are a witch, all right. Attacking your husband the way you did? You need all the help I can give you.”

“We’re not married,” Harriet Mulner said, shrugging the suggestion off for a second time. “I’d do what I did for anybody like that, free of charge, expecting nothing else in return.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” grunted Phil Turney. “Thinks she can heal severe cases by a single aggressive stroke of luck. A wicked witch of a person indeed, poor fellow, having to live with someone like that.”

“Watch yourself, sonny. Keep talking like that and you may find yourself singing soprano from a quick knee to your groin.” Harriet eyed him up and down with squinted keen eyes, walked into the office and sat down. Darned, if she was going to leave without getting her money’s worth from the prepaid hour ticking away before her eyes.

“Witch,” said Phil Turney. All the less fitting epithets and psychological labels wouldn’t fit on his swollen, bitten tongue.

It was her eyes. Listening to the monotone of her angry remonstrance at the misfortunes of her life drew him under her spell. Fifteen minutes through the hour and the beauty of this woman made every breath ache with want and need.

Fingers dropped pen and notebook. HIs encouraging hum to continue lay asleep upon his lips. All Phil Turney wanted was to sit and gaze upon this radiant beauty.

“So. What do you think? Can you help me?” Harriet Mulner waited. She waited longer, even more. “Snap out of it, man. That is a deep well you’ve fallen into. What’s wrong with you?”

“Bewitched,” sighed Phil Turney, the man. The psychologist in him had long departed. It was the realization that this exquisite creature was married that brought him swimming back up from the depths of worship and admiration.

“My hour is up. I feel much better, thank you. Not much help but listening and that is a greater art than most men understand.” The sound of Harriet Mulner’s tone was lightened considerably by venting the ills weighing down her abundant and provocative chest.

She heaved a great and welcome sigh as she rose to show herself out. Phil Turney found his knees unable to help him stand. He croaked out a “I must see you again. I don’t care if you are married or not.”

The door opened to the silent specter of the patient waiting room. “I’m not,” said the black haired raving beauty’s red lipped smile now pouting on her face. “It’s not my fault. Why do you keep bringing it up, you beast.”

There stood the drooling idiot Phil Turney supposed to be her mate. Phil’s trembling hand rose to his lips to determine if he too, were drooling over the witch. “Love potion. Breathing in one scent, one look, a passing touch. The wonder is beyond my comprehension.”

There was a twinkle in Harriet Mulner’s eyes as feminine intuition brought awareness of what was going on under the surface. She winked. “You have my number, if you think yourself virile and manly enough, call tonight and I’ll have you over for supper." Her eyes ate him up.

She would have to thank her brother for setting her up for meeting and feeling the love light warmth shining forth in this psychologist’s eyes. “Humph, and my brother thinks I am such a witch no man would have me. Teach him, I will.”

She did that very night, when Phil Turney offered his undying love to public view.
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