by Nicholas Diehl
She looked like soot and snow, kohl eyes and spiky black hair and pale, pale skin, as if she carried an umbrella, rain or shine. If she did, he wondered, would it be black or white? One or the other, given the rest of her clothes. She wore black jeans and small white tops, tight across her chest. That was how he met her, in fact: She caught him staring at her breasts across the lab table one day. He flushed and dropped his eyes, but she winked at him later and blew him a kiss when she left. The next week they were lab partners, and every week after that.
Still, he wasn't really expecting anything. He'd seen her around, holding hands with a blonde girl a couple of times, so he figured he wasn't her type.
"You have such gorgeous blue eyes," she said. "I like blue eyes. Why haven't you asked me out? Is it because I'm a witch?"
She said it without any special affect, like she was reading a number on a pipette. Nonplussed, he ignored the bit about being a witch. "Well, uh, I thought you had a girlfriend. I've seen you around campus with, um, that girl."
"Oh." And she didn't say another word about it, not while they conducted the titration, not while they figured the concentration of the acid and wrote up the lab report. Finally, just when they were getting packed up to leave he asked her:
"So are you a good witch or a bad witch?"