“I hate everyone!” I shouted as I crossed the threshold of my house. 

I didn’t bother taking off my mother’s coat or my shoes. I just barreled right to my parent’s liquor cabinet and snatched their bottle of cheap tequila. Throwing my head back, I tossed the cap somewhere and took a greedy swig. The liquor spilled down my throat, but it jumped back up with a mighty vengeance. It was like getting knocked over the head with a baseball bat and I wanted more. I wanted this bottle to wreck me. 

Daisy came jogging up to my feet with a curious look and my frozen heart melted into slush. I took another drink before dropping to the floor and scratching her ears. “Not you, Daisy. You’d never disappointed me. You’re my perfect sweet little girl.” 

Nibbler meowed from the top of the grandfather clock. “You too, Nibbler… but sometimes…” I plopped all the way down to my butt like a tired toddler. “Sometimes, it feels like you two don’t even love me without expecting something. I bet you guys love Mom and Dad more than me too.” 

This made me throw back another drink, but it went down the wrong pipe and I choked until I thought my brains were going to fly out of my nose. Groaning, I sniffled and checked my phone. A few missed calls from Jeremy. A couple of texts from Gretchen and Steven. Nothing from David. 

The image of his laughter jumped back into my head like a once-dead horror movie villain coming back to stab the final girl one last time and I winced. I didn’t want to remember that. Then, I heard Jeremy’s voice again, “Come on, Cal. Be a good sport.”

 I kept drinking, lugging the bottle and my sluggish body around the house, and knocking things down that reminded me of Jeremy, David, and love in general. My mother’s flower vase that made me think of my almost kiss with David. Trash. The pictures of Jeremy and I celebrating his birthday. Tossed out the window. A sweatshirt he left behind from our last sleep over. Burned. 

Nibbler meowed in approval. 

I flicked the radio on, scanning until I found the loudest, most jumbled screaming metal music I could find and turned it all the way up. After another shot and a few turns around the living room, when the world was all swimmy and my body felt so heavy, like warmed up playdough, I was finally feeling a smidge better. 

“The perfect man. Ha!” I laughed at my own joke. “What does Jeremy’s mom know about the perfect man? Look at her son!” I sipped the bottle and my whole body convulsed. “I know the formula for the perfect man. I’ve gone through enough bad ones to know…”

I shuffled, kind of dancing, kind of stumbling into the greenhouse attached to our house. The glossy windows were slick with dew and all separated and held together with thin green metal pieces. Sometimes, families made house calls with their pets, so the Keys house was ready to make any salve, potion, or incense. But today, this wasn’t about the animals. 

This was about making the perfect man.

“Alright,” I started, taking one more drink before slamming the tequila bottle on the worktable. That last sip was like opening the door to the second level of inebriation. I had reached a blurry enlightenment, and nothing could stop me. 

I eyed the cat and dog, my partners in crime. “We’re gonna need a big pot…” My words came out muffled and soft like balls of cotton being fed through a meat grinder. “I’m thinking of making a man with more than just good looks. I’m not totally callous—don’t look at me like that Nibbler, I so do like substance in a man.” 

I dragged my limp body to the kitchen, stumbling into the pantry and knocked over anything in my way, letting Tupperware and bowls roll across the floor to get to a hefty old caldron. With a grunt, I nearly threw my back out hauling the thing across the house. Dropping it in the living room, I half ran, half danced to the music still blasting while I hurried up the stairs to grab my pillow.

“Some goose feathers,” I remarked. “To make my man gentle—oh! And my headphones so he’s a good listener.” 

Giggling, I hurried downstairs with my goodies and dumped them into the caldron. I scavenged all around the house for ingredients, naming them off to the pets, “A dictionary! So, he’s smart, but not pretentious. Chapstick—vanilla flavored so he’s a good kisser. Of course, some roses, so he’ll be romantic… I’ll add some white chocolate too because I hate it and he can eat what I don’t want.” 

With my treasures, I dragged the caldron back to the work room. There was a firepit in the middle of the room constructed for important matters like large quantities of potions and to make smores. I made a silent apology to my mother who banned me from touching matches while intoxicated because in a drunken haze I once set fire to the tablecloth instead of a pumpkin spice candle. 

Dumping in some water, I started the boiling process. I shrugged and thought the water would be good anyways. The perfect man should be well hydrated.