Page 34 of Single-Minded
“I’m definitely not going to sleep with him,” I insist to Darcy. “He has the IQ of a sand gnat.”
“What does that have to do with his biceps?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“I’m not doing this,” I say.
“Oh, you’re definitely going on a date. Firefighter or the pretty-but-dumb guy. Pick one,” she says. “Pick one or I’ll pick one for you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I will.”
“Great,” says Darcy. “You have twenty-four hours to make a decision.”
“I’m not one of your politicians,” I say.
She laughs. “If you were one of my politicians, I would have already made the decision for you.”
The next day I wake up to a text from Darcy:Who’s the lucky guy?
25
The lucky or not-so-lucky guy is Jeffrey, the thirty-one-year old, recently divorced super-hot fireman. At the last minute, I leave a note on my refrigerator written in red Magic Marker with a printout of Jeffrey’s profile photo:Dear Police, In case you find me in a ditch, the person you should interrogate first is Flashpoint77 onMatch.com,555-941-2221.
We meet for dinner at Carigulos, one of my favorite Italian eateries. Michael and I used to come here on a pretty regular basis, so I figure somebody on the waitstaff will notice if I end up bound in firehose in the trunk of some guy’s car. I’m the first to arrive, and I take a seat at the corner of the bar. Research shows bartenders gravitate toward the corners, so it will be easier to keep the drinks coming. My nerves are shot, so I go ahead and order a glass of white wine. It’s half gone before a gentleman taps me on my back.
“Alex?” he says.
“That’s me,” I say. “Thank you, but I’m waiting for someone. We’re not ready for our table yet.” He’s very short, maybe five-six on a very tall day, and from my perch on the barstool I have a lovely view of his oddly shaped bald spot. It’s very dim in the restaurant, but it almost looks like there’s something painted on his head.
“I’m Jeff,” he says. It takes me a second to comprehend that he’s my date. This is mostly because he looks nothing at all like his hunky photo in the firefighter uniform—he’s a good fifteen (or thirty) pounds heavier, couldn’t reach five-eleven with a step stool, and there’s no way in hell he’s thirty-one. Maybe fifty-one. His height really throws me, and I wonder if he was standing on a couple of phone books in the group photo he’d posted. Or maybe he just has a lot of really teeny-tiny friends.
He pulls up a bar stool next to me, and I try not to gawk as he struggles to mount the seat. There’s more of the black paint stuff on the side of his forehead, and I’m just about to hand him a napkin when I realizeit’s artificial hair.
Like the kind you see on late-night infomercials—the kind you spray on from a can. Like bug spray. Or Mace.
“So,” he says. “You look exactly like your profile. That’s a nice change. Most of the women I go out with have been photoshopped, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I say, trying very hard not to stare.
“There’s nothing like showing up for a date and finding out she’s fifty pounds heavier and ten years older.” He smiles broadly and I can see he’s missing a tooth. He’s supposed to be a firefighter. Why is he missing a tooth?
“Yes,” I say. “I imagine that’s a shocker…” I’m not sure whether to order another round of drinks and laugh my ass off, or just break into tears. We’ve only been here a minute and a half and I’m already speechless. It takes a massive amount of concentration on my part not to stare at the tooth hole.
“So,” he says, signaling the bartender. “Your profile says you were divorced?”
“Yes,” I say. “My husband is gay.”
“Well, then he’s a moron,” says Jeff. “If you were my wife, I’d never go gay.” I’m only mildly intrigued about the level of attractiveness Jeff believes to be a requirement to maintain one’s sexual orientation, but there’s no way I’m getting into it. I’m going to finish my drink and get the hell out of here.
“You’re divorced also?” I ask as I drain my wineglass. How long do I have to stay to check a guy off my Naughty Nine list? Three minutes? Five? Through the appetizer round?
“The bitch cheated on me,” he says. “Can you believe it?”
“I can,” I say as I drop a ten on the bar for the bartender. “Interesting meeting you, Jeff. Thanks for the date.” It’s hard to believe that there is anyone worse at dating than I am, but I’ve just hit the jackpot.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Don’t you want to get dinner?” He pauses, raising his eyebrow at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Maybe get to know each other a little better?”
