Your perspective on the room suddenly alters -- you’re seeing things from a lower angle, as if you’d suddenly stepped into a crater.
Confused, you look down, just in time to see your sneakers morph into high-heeled shoes, your athletic socks become gauzy knee-high socks, and your jeans drastically shortening and fusing together, forming a skirt, revealing shapely, hairless legs with honey-colored skin.
You feel your waist contracting, and you watch your fingernails extend outward to form a white-tipped manicure. Your shirt lightens until it becomes white, and made of a thinner material -- you can see darker fabric beneath the chest.
Longer hair tickles the back of your neck as you turn toward the window -- since it’s light inside and dark outside, there’s a decent reflection, and you see what you feared. You’ve become your type -- a petite Asian who happens to be wearing, more or less, a Japanese schoolgirl uniform.
“Should have been more specific,” you think as you reach into your pocket to get the stone.
No pockets in the skirt.
You panic for a second and then notice the purse that you now have, its strap over one shoulder. You put it on the kitchen counter and start going through it. Lipstick, a small package of Kleenex, a makeup compact, a tampon -- oh, wow.
“Hey, baby,” says a male voice. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure,” you say in a high-pitched voice that makes you cringe inwardly. That’s not exactly what you meant to say. You look up at the guy. He’s got typical frat-guy looks, his muscles forced into a too-small Ed Hardy T-shirt. You feel your heart beating a little faster, and it suddenly occurs to you that your “type” may include being “easy.”
He starts going through the liquor bottles, pouring what seem like random amounts into a cup. He notices you’re still rummaging and asks, “What are you looking for?”
You get your hand on it, at the very bottom of the purse. “Found it,” you say with a bit of an unintended giggle, and pull out the stone.
“What’s that, your pet rock?” he asks. It’s not glowing.
“No, of course not,” you say.
He puts the cup down in front of you. “Here, drink this and let me look at that,” he suggests.
You hand it over. He’s a guy, so he should know best, right? You start drinking and find that it tastes a lot like iced tea. It’s refreshing.
Meanwhile, he’s turning the rock around in his hand...
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