"Hello, my deeah," said a whispering voice through the phone. "I see you bought yourself some bigger breasts."
"Who is this?" I asked, my eyebrows furrowing.
"I'm the old lady you saved," she said. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, I was lost in the pathways of magic. I was trying to follow the trace of an ancient relic at the time, and I would probably have been run over if it wasn't for your help. So, I gave you something you might want - a trial membership for a body shop."
"I thought a body shop was where you buy parts for your car," I said. “And while I’m at it, I want to know what the hell you mean by magic!”
The old lady sighed. “Very well, my deeah,” she said. “I am a mage. Hardly first-class, but a mage nonetheless. I have lived for roughly six hundred years, perfecting my own magical arts – with limited success,” she added. “Merely possessing the Gift for magic does not imply that you have a talent for it. In any case, my shops are for people who would like to look different, but don’t have the money or inclination for surgery. I offer memberships for those who have done me or my business a good turn, but aside from them, I tell no one. It is a law among mages that we keep magic a secret.”
I had to catch my breath. “I’m not sure I believe you,” I said. “I mean, no offense, but, well… magic is impossible.”
“No, I am not offended,” the old lady said. “My deeah, belief is up to you. If you want proof, try putting the false breasts you bought today over your real ones. That should be proof enough for you.”
“I… I already did,” I admitted. “Okay, I guess I can accept magic. But why are you calling me?”
“My deeah, I make it a point to contact each of my customers after their first purchase. It is good for a business to appear friendly. Now, do you have any other questions for me?”
My mind was reeling. It was one thing suddenly being introduced to magic by a six hundred-some-year old lady, it was another thing being given a trial membership to a set of shops that allowed you to change your body. “Okay, how long does this trial membership last?” I asked.
“For… five years,” she said. “Not a lot of time, I know, but – “
“Not a lot of time? Not a lot of time!?” I exclaimed. “That’s more time than you could ever ask for!”
“I… see,” the old lady said. “Well, in any case, my deeah, I think I have taken a liking to you. I shall give you my phone number, in case you’d like to call about an apprenticeship. Good-bye for now.” She hung up.
I was a little peeved that she’d tell me that she’d give me her phone number and then not give it to me, but since I didn’t want anything more to do with her or her strange shops, I wasn’t complaining. Then I noticed a ratty old piece of paper on my desk. It said, “674-022-5387: Mrs. Witch.”
So that was her phone number.
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