I said, "I wish you realized you were naked."
Dr. Hauser looked down, shrieked, and tried to cover herself with her arms, sending her notepad and pen flying. She stammered, "How -- how did you -- I can't believe you - - what did you --"
Her telephone beeped, and her receptionist's voice came through the speaker. "Are you okay?"
The doctor looked cautiously at me and then said, "Y-yes, Jean. Just acting something out."
"Okay," said the disembodied female voice. "Sorry to bother you." Click.
Dr. Hauser took a deep breath. She had one arm across her breasts, and was covering her private parts with the other. "Can -- can you give me some clothes?"
"Sure," I said with a bit of a smirk. "I wish you were dressed super sexy, like a hooker or a stripper."
Dr. Hauser gasped, looking down at herself. She was wearing a leopard-print miniskirt, a matching top that was little more than the upper half of a bikini, a small fuchsia-colored jacket, and black shoes with tall platforms and stiletto heels. But that wasn't all -- the magic had apparently taken "dressed" to refer to her whole look, and thus, she now had a heavy coat of colorful makeup on her face, large hoop earrings, some gaudy necklaces and bracelets, and a charm dangling from a pierced navel; her hair, instead of hanging straight, had even been teased out and fluffed.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Now, we've talked about treating women as sex objects. It's difficult for me to act in a professional capacity when you have transformed my clothes -- "
"I'm sorry," I interrupted. She smiled and relaxed a bit, and then I said, "I wish the way you looked now was completely professional and appropriate."
Nothing happened -- or so it seemed.