Has my life really come down to this? A candle?

  Not just any candle. The ultimate love candle from our local witch, Titi. I don’t doubt her at all. I’ve seen enough of her witchy abilities since I was little. My concern is that I’m so desperate for a partner, my family decided to bring me to Titi’s, like an intervention, and buy me this candle. I would’ve wanted to do this alone, without anyone’s knowledge. I kept holding out because I didn’t want to light it at home, igniting a conversation about how insecure I feel, and I can’t do it at work and risk burning down the building.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” my mom says, as if she could read my mind. “Sometimes we need help, and it’s ok,” says the person who has never gone to therapy.

  My sister and my grandma walk behind us, talking about how this candle has helped others. I don’t want to hear it. My dad and my eighteen-year-old nephew, Boris, stayed in the car because we couldn’t find parking, so they’re in a red zone.

  “Think of this as a boost,” my divorced sister says.

  As soon as we open the car doors to get inside, my dad asks about the chips we were supposed to get.

  “Oh, right,” my sister says. “I also forgot to get some coffee; we’re running low.”

  With my eyes rolling, and my confidence at its lowest, we head back to Titi’s. Besides magic candles, she also sells groceries. It’s convenient, really.

  Against everyone’s strong suggestions, I light my magic candle when everyone is asleep. That way, I don’t get anyone’s weird energy in this manifestation.

  I take a deep breath with my eyes closed. Before I flick the lighter in my hand, I think hard about who I want in my life. Someone who could solve all my problems, love me forever, make me happy, all the attributes I've ever read about for a happily ever after. I want that.

  I light it.

  Despite what my brain wants, I choose not to post a picture of my candle to share with my followers because, although it looks pretty, some people might recognize it, and that would be embarrassing.

  I stare at the candle as I see the flame dancing happily, knowing my deepest desire to find the perfect someone. As I feel my eyes grow heavy, I see the candle flame grow larger and larger until it illuminates my small kitchen. Is this supposed to happen? I see the silhouette of someone standing at the narrow opening between the living room and the kitchen. It’s not my dad or Boris, as this shadow is much taller and broader. As soon as it moves away, towards the living room, I jolt awake and notice how the candle actually didn’t light all that much. Not even the tip is melted. Flicking the lighter again, I contain my annoyance as the wick flares but goes out immediately. Obviously, there’s something wrong with the wick. I light it again, and the flame is so weak, it barely hangs on. Frustrated, I head to bed. It’s late, I’m super annoyed, and I know it’s not a good idea to try to manifest anything in this state. Not even this miracle candle wants me to be happy.

  Morning comes, and I wake up to my mom screaming at the top of her lungs. And in Spanish, which means she’s actually pissed.

  “Bej!”

  I roll my eyes as I go down a list of things I could’ve done wrong. I washed my plates, put away my shoes, and folded my laundry.

  She barges into the room. “I know you didn’t light the candle without the salt and hyssop ring.”

  I stare blankly at her as I try to make sense of what she’s telling me.

  “You put the salt and hyssop ring around the candle, right?” She looks at me, longing to tell her she’s right, as always.

  “Yeah, of course,” I lie.

  I don’t remember that being something I had to do.

  I get down and notice the candle is all melted. My grandma passes by slowly, as always, gives me a good-morning kiss on the cheek, and looks at the candle.

  “Without the ring, it could be dangerous,” she says.

  “Yes, we know, ma’am,” my mom answers for me. “Bej says she put the ring around it.”

  They both look at me as my dad comes into the kitchen and looks at the candle. He raises his eyebrows as if to tell me, You messed up.

  Quickly, I think of another lie to calm this down before my sister gets involved. “I couldn’t sleep, and as soon as the candle was out, I cleaned it. I didn’t want there to be a mess for you this morning. Sorry, I should’ve said that. I’m still half asleep.”

  Everyone’s shoulders visibly lower.

  My mom smiles at me. “Ok, great. This is going to be good. You’ll see. I hope you asked for someone who wants kids.”

  “I have to get ready for work,” I say, annoyed.

  “Bej, this is important. You’re about to hit menopause, and we need kids in the family.”

  “I’m not even forty yet.”

  “Honey, you’re officially a solterona. I’m just trying to help you.”

  That word, solterona, is such an ugly word. Soltera means single. Add the -ona at the end, and it makes it sound like an insult. Someone with a mastery of the Spanish language managed to coin a word that makes being single sound gross.

  “Ok,” I say as I walk past her and lock myself in the bathroom.

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  Mornings suck, having to share the one bathroom with everyone. When my sister is late, she expects everyone to know that the bathroom is off limits, which is the case this morning. After countless adolescent-level arguments, I float my way to work.

  Initially, I was happy being the admin. My pay was better than most of my friends in our early twenties, back when I had dreams of being the CEO of my own makeup company. I was going to be a business major with a minor in law. Instead, I have a degree in English, as that’s what my then-boyfriend convinced me to pursue. He said it was much cheaper and I would still have the opportunity to go the business route. It’s the most useless thing I’m still paying off and impeding me from living on my own. But at least we were the cute couple taking most of the same classes. Who am I kidding? I was so dumb. Now, I’m stuck here as a glorified admin, getting paid almost the same, helping fifteen lawyers fight for the fair rights of abused employees.

  The monotony of the day is easy to fall back into, and as always, I start to daydream about my soulmate—someone who can take care of me for once. I would quit my job, run outside, and jump into his arms. Then, I would start planning my company, and he would help me. We build an empire to help people feel more beautiful on the outside, and hopefully that can help them feel better on the inside. What is so off-putting about me that I can’t attract even one guy when I go out? I know I’m thick in all the right places, and I’m smart. If I die single, I don’t know what achievement in life would have been so worth it. All my friends have someone. Even the toxic ones are happy because it’s at least something worth gossiping about.

  I take a breath, adjusting my focus to the millions of emails and assignments I have to complete before the weekend. Eventually, as I’m typing emails, my breathing relaxes, and my focus blurs. My fingers become sluggish from the endless typing until I feel my body completely still. My eyes close, and my heart slows.

  I feel someone’s fingers gradually touch my neck with such delicacy. The foreign, strong fingers gently push in with a nice rhythm. They work their way through the stress knots I’ve accumulated for years, untying them with such patience.

  “Breathe,” a sexy sounding male voice I don’t recognize instructs me.

  I do just that. I breathe in and feel the cracks of the knots coming undone, forcing me to exhale with painful pleasure. Still, I find my body to be unable to move willingly, but every time I try, these fingers tap on a knot, making me twitch.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

  I feel a ping on my stomach. It’s been seven years. It feels like a lifetime since I’ve felt wanted, since someone has noticed me. My breathing is heavy as he keeps working on my neck and slides his way to my shoulders. It feels so good. All the stress is melting away in this stranger's hands.

  Nothing else matters right now. No emails. No clients. No unfair justice system or shitty employers. Nothing. His hands slide down my arms, hiding under my black jean jacket that protects me from the ice-cold temperatures in here. He’s so warm.

  A breath tickles my neck, exposed because of my high bun, sending chills down my spine and forcing the hairs on my body to rise. At first, the breath is a little sexy. That unique warmth of another person so close to me excites me. His arms wrap around me. I feel a stubble on my cheek. My lips can’t help but crease up, no matter how much I tell myself this is all a dream. I haven’t felt this type of affection in a long time. Someone to give me purpose. A reason to wake up in the mornings other than work. I try to look at who this mysterious person is, but he presses his face against mine even harder.

  His hug gets stronger. It’s harder to breathe. His stubble suddenly doesn’t feel good anymore. It’s rougher, like a dog’s tough fur. For a split second, I hear a low growl and moist, sharp teeth flirting to pierce through my skin on my vulnerable neck. My breathing shallows as my body is still paralyzed.

  A loud knock jolts me awake, making the motion-sensor lights in my office turn on again.

  “I know you weren’t just sleeping, girl,” Jordan says from my door.

  He’s the only person who can pull off a pink button-up shirt with white suspenders and white trousers. When I was the receptionist, I felt pressure to look nice, too, but now I’m tucked away in an office and don’t interact with many clients in person. My mom likes to remind me that we never know who’s watching, but I’m confident nobody has batted an eye at me for a while.

  “I wasn’t.” I straighten up, slightly embarrassed.

  I look behind me, double-checking that there wasn’t anyone there. It all felt so real.

  “Monica is having another fit because people were taking ‘extra’ breaks. I don’t know what that even means. She considers a bathroom break an actual break, like a psycho.”

  “Ugh. We’re over here fighting for employment rights, but we’re being abused, right?”

  “What’s going on here?” I hear Monica, our new boss, approaching.

  Jordan rolls his eyes and walks away.

  “Where are we with all the new intakes?” she asks me.

  Unlike Jordan, I don’t think she’s showered in days. Her oily hair is in dire need of a good lather. I imagine she suffers from the same fate I do, sharing one bathroom with six people. It’s why I’m late to most places, but at the very least, I shower.

  “We’re getting there.” I force a smile. “Doing the work of the three people who were laid off is… a challenge, as we discussed in our last meeting, but we’re close.”

  “I don‘t need excuses, Bej. I need progress. We invested a lot in the new AI-integrated system to help you. Send me an update before you leave.” She click-clacks away so loudly that it makes her tiny stature seem bigger.

  I take a deep breath and bury my face in my hands, wishing life were fair. After a good stretch, I retie my long, curly hair in a fresh top bun. I pull out my tiny makeup bag and do some small touch-ups before heading to the break room for another coffee, risking not being able to sleep tonight, but I need it so badly.

  In our break room, with its terrible, lifeless LED lights, Jordan sits with our other new, baby-faced receptionist, Veronica. She looks like she just finished college and is still in the phase of trying to impress people.

  “How long have you worked here?” she asks as I grab my work mug from the cabinet above the coffee maker.

  “Eight wonderful years, and then this one, so coming up on nine.” I’m old.

  She gasps with excitement.

  “So you must know the delivery guy, right?” Veronica asks, almost stumbling out of her seat, making her short, gelled curls bounce dramatically.

  “Delivery guy?”

  “He’s the guy who comes and fills our vending machines, but he also helps with everything else we need,” Jordan adds. “Honestly, not sure what his exact title is.”

  “I’m sure he comes with our new building, no?” I ask, as I mix my sugar in.

  “He said that he was happy that our company hired him even after the move,” he informs me. “But I don’t remember him either.”

  “And he’s sexy, or what?” I ask.

  “Girl… he is perfection.”

  Veronica nods as she bites her lip, thinking about him. I laugh as I drink my cold office coffee.

  “Let me know when he comes in next time. Send me a message or something. This is the most exciting thing that has happened in almost a year.”

  They laugh, thinking I’m joking.

  As I walk back to my office, I see the time: Forty-five minutes to go. I will miss the sunlight again by half an hour, but that’s ok. I can’t allow myself to fall asleep again, even though it felt so good. Sometimes, I feel like these little naps are better than trying to sleep in my crowded house. However, I can’t blame my sister for moving back. I can’t get a decent place with an office job in a massive law firm; my poor sister can’t find anything with a teacher’s salary and divorce drama.

  Sitting on my chair, I can’t help but think back on the dream I just had. It was so intense. That tight hug from behind was so exhilarating. Now that I feel my neck, it truly feels like I was getting a massage. It’s sore. As I rub my neck, I remember him saying, You’re beautiful. It makes me smile. I feel slightly pathetic for feeling thrilled by a weird dream I had at work. I want to dream of him again, but this time, I hope it won’t turn into a nightmare.