Page 10 of Pity Present

Once the coffee is done, I pour myself a cup and crawl back into bed. Then I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open a new doc to make a list of questions I want to find the answers to.

Why have a two-week dating getaway instead of simple weekends?I’m guessing it’s so they can charge more money.

How many singles are participating? Probably a hundred.There seems to be no end to how many suckers are out there willing to spend a fortune to find love.

Is it an even number of men and women?My money’s on more women because they have that whole biological clock thing going on.

How did everyone find out about the event?

Where do the participating singles live?

While I want all the questions answered, I find the last one most compelling. I mean, if people are coming from all over, how are they expected to make enough of a connection to keep dating after they leave? The answer to that might be why the event lasts two weeks. The extended time could be enough for real feelings to develop, although I doubt it. I mean, who signs up for a relationship after such a short time?

My last girlfriend and I had been together a full year before she got a great job offer in San Francisco. That felt like long enough that we might actually make a go of it. The problem was that I worked a lot of weekends, and she didn’t want to be the one always commuting. So, what I thought was a relationship on track for the long haul turned out to be the beginning of the end.

By the time we’d missed three consecutive weekends, she declared she needed more. I agreed long-distance wasn’t working like we thought it would and accepted that we should move on. In retrospect, I wonder if we should have fought for each other. It seems the older you get, the harder it is to find someone you’re innately compatible with. Which is apparently why people are willing to spend a fortune on the pipe dream of a matchmaker.

Before closing my laptop, I pop onto the internet and do a quick search on Lana. It’s probably been two years since I’ve done that, and I’m curious to know how she’s doing. Being that she’s awell-known interior designer, Google spits out several pages of matches for her name.

Clicking on her Instagram page, I discover that my ex is not only happily married, but she’s also a new mother of twins. A wave of sadness hits me like a semi running into a brick wall. I’m not sure why this affects me so much; it’s not like I’m still in love with her. After some reflection, I realize it’s probably because she has the life I thought I’d have by now. I’d like to be a husband and a father. And now that I’m past thirty, I guess my own biological clock has started to make noise. How depressing.

Once I close the computer, I get out of bed and take a hot shower. While the rain pulse beats down on my head, it hits me that Iamat a singles’ event. If I want to find someone to date, this could be the perfect place to do so. Then I remind myself I don’t believe in this kind of thing and the feeling of possibility passes.

Every relationship I’ve been in has started organically. None of them included paying an overpriced pimp to help me secure romance. I briefly consider the fact that none of my past girlfriends are still around, but at least our relationships weren’t the byproduct of some busybody who thought she knew what was best for me. I’ve got my mom for that, should I ever need it.

After getting out of the shower, I put on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt before venturing out of my room. I’d like to get a lay of the land downstairs before I’m thrown to the wolves, or they’re thrown at me. Whichever the case, there’s a definite wild animal metaphor playing in my brain.

Walking out into the hallway, I almost expect to see Molly there, but she’s not. I briefly glance at her closed door before turning in the other direction and heading to the elevator. Inside, there’s a woman standing with a small child leaning next to her. He’s very slender and has a pale pallor. He doesn’t look well.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m waiting for my husband.” She moves to push her child out of the way so I can go down.

“I can wait for a minute or two,” I tell her. I smile at her son and a wave of compassion comes over me. My brother had asevere case of cerebral palsy when he was born. His death when he was only three left a hole in our family that we never fully recovered from. Tommy was five years younger than me and seven years younger than my sister, Melissa. It’s hard to remember what our lives were like before him.

“What’s your name?” I ask the boy.

“Ben,” he tells me proudly, showing off a crooked smile.

“This is a pretty cool place, isn’t it?” I ask him.

---