[ WP ] Years ago , you promised your firstborn to a witch . Since then , despite your best efforts , you ca n't seem to get laid . The witch is starting to get pretty pissed .

Amber is doing that thing with her hands again, that thing where she wrings the space around my head, and I ca n't tell whether's she about to curse me or strangle me. Maybe it's neither: maybe she's trying to magically mold the mush in my head into something better. Something braver and wittier. Well, good luck to her with that. 
 
 `` I do n't understand,'' she says, and the look she gives me makes me feel more like a puzzle than a person. `` How can you be so socially inept?'' 
 
 `` How can you be so inconsiderate of my feelings?'' I respond. Apparently, that was the wrong response—go figure. Her face turns red, and she begins to tremble, and I ca n't tell whether I should brace myself for another drink poured on my head or try and catch her before she faints onto the floor. 
 
 `` Your feelings? That's what you're so worried about? I'm going to melt if you ca n't fulfill our contract!'' The tears are streaming down her cheeks now, and her eyeliner is all runny, and she's basically beginning to melt right now, but for some reason, I ca n't help but think she looks cuter this way. 
 
 But the other patrons have taken notice, taking exaggeratedly long sips from their cups and sneaking peeks above the rims to gawk at us. The barista is shaking his head at us—well, at me—from behind the counter. He's got a face that screams conflict resolution at any cost: any moment now, he's going to kick us out or call the police or challenge me to a fight, and I ca n't even work the last scenario to my favor because his muscles are too big for that Starbucks apron of his. I have to end this right now. 
 
 `` Well, that's what you get for dabbling in witchcraft,'' I say, but humor is apparently the wrong call. Amber gives me a look of revulsion so strong that I can feel the descendants I might never have being cursed for generations to come. She wipes her eyes and storms off towards the women's restroom. 
 
 A hand plants itself on my shoulder: it's Mr. Buff Barista, and he's here to put me out of my misery. `` Look, man,'' he says, `` that's the eighth girl you've upset in here this week. Can you take your dates elsewhere?'' 
 
 `` Look, it's not my fault,'' I say. It really is n't, not fully, anyway. It takes two to mess up the tango, right? I am as much a victim as they are. Amy did nothing to sustain the conversation. Jeanette's disinterest proved infectious. Rachel made equally tasteless jokes about my facial hair. And Amber... well, my remarks may have been insensitive, but she started it. 
 
 `` I do n't care whose fault it is,'' he says, `` just quit making a ruckus.'' 
 
 He slaps the table with his rag, leaving a wet stain next to my coffee, and bustles off to misspell someone else's name. I want to go after him, get a parting shot in, make it known that he's the one in the wrong here. How dare he venture from beyond the coffeemaker and pass judgment on my affairs. It's not my fault he's bothered—it's his. 
 
 But as I rise from the table, I can sense the glares and the smirks from the others in attendance. They, too, have passed their judgment: they agree with the Judge of Starbucks, and they follow me with their eyes, waiting for me to affirm my character for them. Without a glance back, I walk past the tables, past the shelves, past the counter, all the way to the bathroom. 
 
 The door's unlocked, and it occurs to me I should have knocked, but Amber does n't seem to care. She's sitting on the toilet—fully clothed, to my relief. The tears have coagulated into a red mask on her face. She gives me a blank look; though I should be grateful she's not wailing on me to leave, it only makes me unhappy. 
 
 `` I'm sorry,'' I say, `` for not caring about your melting.'' It's terribly worded, but she accepts the apology with a slight nod. 
 
 `` If I never get laid,'' I continue, `` I was thinking, if you're willing, and just to prevent your melting, we could... you know...'' 
 
 The look on her face suggests she'd rather melt, but before I can backpedal, she nods again. `` If necessary, and normally I would say it wo n't be necessary, but with you...'' Amber shrugs and sighs. `` I should n't say that. We will continue to try and try to avoid this fate. For both our sakes.'' 
 
 Amber accepts my hand and climbs off the toilet. As we leave Starbucks, she launches into a description of a friend from work who's looking for a quick rebound. She begins to outline the next date. Already, she's got everything planned, down to the color of my socks. Her face has resumed its color, and her usual verve has returned, to both my relief and chagrin. 
 
 The date will probably turn out in failure, just as the ones before. But maybe, for once, nobody will cry at the end.
