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To read The Last Single Girl: New to the party click here

The street was quiet as I walked out of the theater. The pavement was sleek and black and the cars were topped with beads of water. After the rain, brief as it was, was my favorite time. It smelled new. Everything smelled fresh and untouched as if someone up there wanted to give you another chance. And it was quiet. No sirens, or horns, or people. Just you and the click of your heels to interrupt stillness.

Well, almost.

“So it just wasn’t your night, huh?”

Recognizing the voice, I turned on my heels. Fred, in the most chic outfit yet, all in black, stood in front of me. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

“It’s not really my life, actually,” I said trying to hold back tears.

“I saw that.” Fred nodded toward the theater. “That was number three. What are you going to do now?”

Wiping the first tear from my eye with my index finger and sniffling, I faked a smile. “Buy my first cat. Can’t be the crazy cat lady without cats.”

Fred smiled, toddled toward me and handed me a white, linen handkerchief. “You have a couple of more days left, don’t give up.”

“Who am I suppose to meet now? My three best prospects didn’t work out. How am I supposed to meet someone and create a spark?”

“But all you need is a spark.”

“A spark is everything, Fred,” I said wiping more tears with his handkerchief. “I know that now. You can’t fake it, predict it, plan it or will it to happen. It just happens.” The tears came faster and so did the sobbing. “And you can’t formulate it either. Pedigree doesn’t mean compatibility.”

“And you can’t hide from it either,” Fred added.

“What?” I stopped crying long enough to see Fred serious face. “I haven’t been hiding.”

“You’ve been hiding all your life. If someone isn’t a glamour guy you won’t even give him a second thought. You’re hiding behind material things. Love can’t find you there.”

That’s when I lost it. The tears flowed down my cheeks as well as the snot from my nose. It was a full blown heart cry, in the middle of the street, with a cherub in trendy clothing watching. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

“Hey, you’ve got a couple of more days before Valentine’s Day. Something could happen.”

“Whhhaaat ifff iittt dooeesssn’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

And with that Fred, on cue, popped out.

Breathing through the sobs, I managed to calm myself enough to not look like a complete idiot walking down the street. If I had to be a spinster, let it be a sane spinster with fabulous taste in shoes. Using Fred’s hanky, I wiped the area under my eyes where I was sure that my mascara was making me look like a raccoon. After straightening out my dress, I walked back toward my car.

Fred was right. I was hiding behind labels and money, what men could buy and what lifestyle I would have. Truth be told, I was happy with my current lifestyle. I had security and a great best friend and, if I stopped serial dating, I was sure that I could find a hobby or something. My life was good, with or without a man. Why did it take a Valentine’s Day disaster to prove it?

Maybe because I put too much emphasis on things that aren’t as important. Now, I’d have to pay for that by being the last single girl. It served me right and maybe in the next life I won’t take love for granted and let it find me.

“Come on!”

A man’s distressed voice and the false start of a care echoed in front of me. Along a long line of parked cars a red Focus had its hood up and the driver’s side car door opened.

This was a bad scenario for a woman who was alone at night on a street where no one was driving. Horror movies were made out of this situation. And if I remember correctly, the person of color always died first in those movies. Great.

The man could have been a murderer or a rapist or, even worse, a combo who would dump my body in some shallow grave only to be found by a little boy walking through the woods. But somehow, I wasn’t afraid, but I was still careful.

“Excuse me, do you need any help?” I asked approaching the car.

“Love? It that you?”

Jake hopped out of the car with a delighted look on his face.

“Jake! I didn’t know it was you.”

He scooped me up in a hug and I was surprised. I know that we’ve only known each other a couple of days but … well, it seemed like longer, really…not that I know all about him or his life… but we know enough to hug…maybe…kinda…well, yeah. Geez, he smelled good. I returned the hug and he held me tighter.

His eyes evaluated my face and concern blanketed his. “Have you been crying? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” I shook my head. Jake’s arms were still around my waist. My hands around his upper arms. For a skinny guy, he was pretty strong.

“Date didn’t go so good, then?”

“Something like that. Long story.”

“Well, I have the time. Called for a tow truck and it’s gonna take an hour to get here. They’re suppose to call my cell phone when they’re on their way.” He stepped back, letting me go.

“Well, my car is right there. Do you need me to drive you somewhere?”

“No, I don’t need anything.”

Have you ever had a moment of complete clarity, a eureka moment, if you will? It’s that moment when the heart beats faster, and smiles are cheekier. Everything in the brain and soul—thoughts, emotions, feelings, even tomorrow’s grocery list—is twisted into a kaleidoscope of gibberish. All you want to do is giggle and skip like a 5-year-old and sing silly songs like a stroke patient. This was my moment. Clarity.

To read The Last Single Girl: A Complication, click here

By the time I arrived at my apartment, all I wanted was a bath and a glass of wine. How could this have happened! This is what happens when you don’t research your dates, their wives go ballistic. And Derrick was such a charmer, too. How could I have let myself get caught up in this?

This was the worst date ever! And the worst part was that I had 10 days left to find Prince Charming. Ten days and two guys left to make a connection worthy enough of Fred’s arrow. One of the other two had to pay off. I was running out of time.

I walked up the three sets of stairs to my apartment, defeated. At my final step, I looked up to see Michelle waiting by my door, a bottle of red wine and a box of chocolates in her hands.

“Thought I’d drop by since I was in the neighborhood.”

“You were on this side of town at this hour?”

Standing there like a pair of dorks, we erupted in laughter and gave each other a hug. Our “I’m sorry” ritual went back to our college days. During our junior year we had one of those falling out arguments that changed the course of friendships. To this day, I don’t remember what the argument was about but I remember the apology part. We wondered, if guys say they’re sorry with flowers and chocolates, why can’t women. So that night we bought each other chocolate bars and plastic flowers from the dollar store (college kids have no money) and we made up. So now, when one of us apologizes, they have to spring for chocolates and flowers. Our tastes have gotten expensive—Godiva chocolates and roses—but the ritual stayed the same, for the most part.

“Where’s my flowers?” I asked.

“Thought the bottle of wine would be more fun.”

“Wino.” I winked at M as I opened my front door.

Once inside, it took M 2.5 seconds to start the apology sequence.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t let you explain—”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t supportive—”

“—it’s just that when you said you wouldn’t—”

“—of course I like Gary, and I like you with him—”

“—I went into Bridezilla mode, which I hate. I can’t get married without—”

“—and you’re gonna be so happy. I want you to be happy you’re my—”

“—best friend,” we finally said in unison. And then we hugged and everything was as it should be. M was back, a glass of wine was awaiting us and … wait a minute. Fred was right! Michelle was back in my life. He was two for two tonight, better than my batting average.
After our hug, I opened the wine, sat M down and told her everything. EVERYTHING. From Fred to the hourglass, to Derrick and the incident with his wife. I wasn’t sure if she was going to believe me; it was already a far-fetched story with the Cupid thing and all. But she was my best friend and even if she thought I belonged in a white straitjacket eating tapioca somewhere, it was the truth and she needed to hear it.

After I was done, Michelle sat in silence. All I could see were eyes moving back and forth in an attempt to register the story. I bit my tongue and waited.

“Where’s the hourglass?”

I ran to my bedroom to retrieve it. When I came back I set it on the coffee table in front of her. I watched her expression again as she eyed the timepiece, with four days worth of blue-purple sand sitting at the bottom.

“This has got to be the weirdest thing that has EVER happened to you. Like EVER.”

“I know!” My arms sprang toward the sky. “Finally! Someone I can talk with.”

M sat back on the couch, crossed her legs and took a sip of wine. I joined her.

“Okay, so you narrowed it down to three guys. And Derrick is a wash. Damn cheater. Who’s next?”

“Nelson Perry in two days.”

Michelle’s eyes grew wide right before she shuddered. “You’ve GOT to be kidding me? Nelson

“ ‘The Tongue’ Perry. I can still hear him in my sleep!”

Ah yes. Nelson was a corporate lawyer and, as such, he was use to arguing and making deals all day. Problem was that his business behavior spilled over into his personal life. Everything was a negotiation. I wanted Mexican for dinner but he wanted Chinese. The compromise was takeout from both places. One time, he actually found a Mexican/Chinese buffet. If I wanted to go to the beach for the day, he wanted a weekend getaway in the country. The compromise was a fan, a bottle of sand and a CD of the sound of waves playing in the car was we jetted away to a country cottage. It got so bad that when I wanted to break up with him, he wanted to negotiate bedroom visits twice a month. M and I called him “The Tongue” because he wouldn’t stop talking.

It wasn’t all bad, though. He was crazy about me and our brief but intense courtship nearly ended in a marriage proposal, sorta. We couldn’t negotiate the right ring. I wanted Tiffany’s, he preferred Harry Winston. But I could overlook that easily; I’ll just let him win. Done! He had impeccable taste anyway.

“Come on, M. You know that if I had let him have his way, I’d be married,” I said.

“And miserable! He would have insisted on 2.5 children and find some sort of half dog and half cat combo,” she laughed. “Well, all you need is a spark, right?”

I nodded and took a sip.

“Well then, spark away. After that loving feeling is gone, we can concentrate on getting you a real man.”

Michelle grabbed the remote from the table and clicked it to channel three. “Sorry, girl. Gary is giving an interview and I promised him I would watch it.”

I gave her the okay and went into my room to change. For a day of turmoil, it ended alright. M was back, she knows about Fred, and she’s on my side. That’s what I needed, someone that was on my side as I went through this. Doing this love search thing alone wasn’t the best way of doing it. Maybe M had another suggestion of who I should call. Maybe there was a rock that wasn’t looked under.

But then again, if Derrick wasn’t married, he would have whisked me away somewhere romantic for our reconciliation. Now, I was back to square one. Well, almost. There was Nelson, of course. He’s no Derrick but in a pinch, he would do. Aesthetically, Nelson had nothing on the smooth as silk Derrick. He was shorter, not as lean, and was prematurely balding. However, Nelson could hold his own when it came to style. He had his own twist. Where Derrick was Hugo Boss classic, Nelson was Calvin Klein, modern and fresh with a touch of the old style. While Derrick was helicopters and lavish tables nestled in cozy corners, Nelson was a limo ride to his high rise apartment with the breathtaking view as Emeril Laggasi, a close personal friend, cooked in front of us. Both very worthy men with style, just different that’s all.

“Marty, when is your date with Nelson?” Michelle asked from the living room.

“Two days from now. Why?”

“He’s not going to make it.”

“What?” Confused, I ran to the living room where M’s face had gone as pale as a ghost. She pointed her ruby red-manicured finger toward the set, the glass of wine still clutched in her other hand. Glancing at the screen, I knew exactly what made M the color of rice paper. Nelson’s picture was plastered on the news. M turned up the volume. The news wasn’t good.

“Corporate lawyer Nelson Perry was arrested today on ten counts of obstruction of justice and insider trading. He is being held without bond,” the anchor lady said.

I plopped down on the couch next to M in disbelief. The footage showed Nelson being taking out of his downtown office, wrists restrained by handcuffs, and a glare bouncing off his shiny, bald head from the t.v. cameras.

“If convicted, he’ll face 20 years in federal prison,” the anchor lady finished.

Speechless. I was completely speechless. Nelson was a great many things but a criminal…I would never have guessed “What are you going to do,” M asked.

“There is only one thing to do,” I answered.

As Nelson was guided into the cop car, I had a sinking feeling that my time and chances were running out quicker than the sand in the hourglass. Lorenzo Castillo, for better or for worse, was my last chance at love.

###

After a quick conversation, Lorenzo agreed to move our date up. Finally, some good news. For the evening, M loaned me her man-catching black dress. It was backless and sexy. Gary fell in love with Michelle when she wore it. It was her good luck charm and, hopefully, it would be mine.

We agreed to meet at a theater downtown but it wasn’t to see a play. It was to see a concert. A rap concert. Under normal, non-cherub circumstances, this would worry me. After all, Lorenzo the pharmacist enjoyed classical music—Mozart, Handel. But hearing him say the word “yo” at the end of a sentence rolled off my back. “Nice to hear from you again, yo.” Yeah. Okay. Whatever.

While Nelson wanted to propose, Lorenzo actually did. He went through the whole bit, one knee, princess cut diamond, roses, band playing, etc. It hurt when I said no.

Did I mention he proposed on our second date? The second date! Our relationship was a newborn and he wanted to trade wedding vows! Amazing.

Lorenzo was my impulsive Latin lover. He was a modern day Dezi Arnaz minus the drum and the accent. Part Puerto Rican and part Dominican, everything about him said islander. He walked at a slower pace, wasn’t at all worried about trivial things like mortgage payments or credit, and always was sun-kissed, even in the dead of winter. Despite his laid back ways, Lorenzo was ever the romantic and was ready, personally and financially, to fall in love. I don’t know why I hadn’t called him sooner.

The theater was more than crowded, it was a solid block of people most of who looked like they could either be my little sibling or could steal my car in a blink. They were a sandpaper rough crowd and I felt like a piece of glass about to be scratched up. The noise was a combination of loud conversations and a rap act on the stage no one paid attention to. Women, who couldn’t be more than 22, looked at me like I had a turkey sitting on my head. Their dark eyeliner and chunky gold (fake?) earrings reminded me of the high school bad girls. And just like those bad girls, they wore enough clothes to avoid an indecency charge—barely. Tube tops, crop tops, bikini tops, all in different colors and styles, showed more than my eyes could take and were coupled with either super saggy pants or super tight jeans. Unfortunately, some thought underwear was optional with their looks.

The men weren’t doing any better. Looking like nightmares, the men were the generic versions of the rappers I’d see on television. Every guy wore a jersey from either a football or baseball team paired with another team’s ball cap. Diamond studs, some as big as fat raindrops, dotted their earlobes. They couldn’t be any older than the ladies they were accompanying, although some looked like they were paired with their daughters instead of dates.

With lips curling like pencil shavings, my heart beat faster and my mouth dried. Some of the twisted looks from the girls made me nervous, like about-to-take-my-lunch-money nervous. But those glances were nothing compared to the ones from the guys—a distinctive t-bone in front of a lion glare.

Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen.

Avoiding eye contact, I stood on my tip toes to look for him. Just then someone shoved me from behind.

“Watch where your—”

Standing in his pizza delivering uniform was Teeth, err Jake, without a pizza in his hands and a growing smile.

“Hey, love. What are you doing here?” Jake yelled as loud as he could. I shook my head to let him know I could barely hear him. He stood closer to me, leaned into my ear and repeated himself.

He smiled delicious. Not like pizza at all.

“I’m suppose to be on a date. What are you doing here?”

“Just delivered a pizza backstage.”

My anxiety started to subside and I felt less threatened with him around. At least I knew one person here and if I couldn’t find Lorenzo, at least Jake would make sure I was safely in my car. Well, at least I thought he would. We’ve only seen each other a couple of time. I mean, we’ve never seen each other like a date or anything, we just met the other day, but it felt like I knew him beyond a simple handshake. But it’s not like we know each other…

“A date? In this crowd?” He chuckled, placed one of his hands on my shoulder and leaned closer. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

I opened my hand-purse and took out a slip of paper with the address. Jake read the address and gave me a thumbs up. He leaned in again. “I didn’t think you’d be the type of girl who’d go for a rapper.”

“Oh, no. My date isn’t a rapper.”

Lorenzo wasn’t into rap or hip hop or anything unless it was written by an old guy centuries ago. I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to meet him here.

“Hey, listen. This is a rough crowd and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I have some time to hang out—”

A short man dressed in a red and black jersey with a thick rope chain dangling from his thick neck walked up to us. He looked older than the average crowd-goer and acted more mature as if he was in charge.

“Yo, you Lo’s chick?”

I looked at the man, at Jake and then at the man again. “Lo’s chick?”

“Yeah, Lorenzo. You his chick?”

Hum. Chick. Like chicken. Like his little chicken? My eyebrows scrunched in the middle of my forehead and my hands went straight to my hips when the man said: “He’s waiting for you backstage.” He grabbed my hand, dragging me through the crowd. I turned to wave at Jake who getting further and further away.

Backstage was an interesting place, much less crowded than the front and more adult. Men in Italian suits and gold rings clicked out messages on their Blackberries. Their female companions, more formally dressed, lingered around them like flies to honey, blank expressions on their made up faces. Walking pass them, the man lead me downstairs to another dark hallway where more people hung around. He opened the second door on the right and motioned me to walk in.

I should have turned arouThe room had exactly one chair, one couch, and two handfuls of people—loud and drunk people who were probably on something stronger than Jimmie Walker. Women in tight, bright spandex and big boobs hung to men like coats on hangers. And not that the men were that impressive. It was more of the same from the crowd, jerseys, chains, ball caps.

And in the middle of it all, sitting on the black leather couch with a white towel on his head was Lorenzo–Lo to this crowd, apparently.

I walked over and sat next to him. As I touched his shoulder, his pretty green eyes focused in on me. He grinned, winked, and gave me a hug.

“What’s up, babe. I’m glad you came out. Respect.”

“What?”

He chuckled to himself and continued. “I’ve missed you, gurl and your fine self. You gonna let a brotha hit that?”

I recoiled. “Lorenzo Castillo! What the hell is going on?”

A sheepish grin crept on his face. Yanking the towel from his head, I saw that his luscious raven hair was gone and in its place was a Mr. Clean baldness that almost made me weep.

“I’m making my debut, baby,” he said nodding. “I’m about to set it off in this bitch.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There are some record label execs upstairs waiting for the next Pitbull. I’m about to blow up!”

What. The. Heck. “You’re going to be a rapper now? Aren’t you a pharmacist?”

Lorenzo laughed. “That just wasn’t me. This is me.” The palms of his hand were flat on his chest. “This is me.”

Before I had a chance to protest, a woman in tight yellow spandex cloth thingy sat on the other side of Lorenzo and started to whisper in his ear. He grinned and nodded and the woman ran her red-nailed hand up his shirt. They started to kiss sloppy insignificant kisses that only a used up woman gives.

That was my cue to leave Lorenzo, former Latin Lover, now wanna be rapper, M.C. Lo — the M.C. standing for mega crazy or mega creep. I didn’t know who to be sadder for, Lorenzo for going down a crazy path or for me seeing the last potential date go down the drain along with my last chance for happiness.

To read the final of The Last Single Girl, click here

For the final part click here

To read The Last Single Girl: It’s a date! click here

In heart of the city’s super rich district, Chez Pierre was a hidden, reservation-only place that boosted the most tasty and authentic Italian cuisine. When Derrick and I were Derrick and I, we frequented this place as if it were our own personal kitchen.

And after years of abandoning that kitchen, everything was as we left it: small, intimate place settings illuminated by candlelight, crisp, white linen tablecloths draped over every table, simple and elegant china bordered in gold. Adding to the already plush atmosphere were the soft hums of whispered conversations.

“Ms. Sandoval, what a pleasure to see you here again.”

Pierre, the owner, the host, the legend, kissed me on the cheek and then on the other. We traded pleasantries and a brief chat before he led me to our usual table, the one tucked away in the darkest, coziest corner.

I followed him through the main dining area where the regular-not-so-important people ate. Around a pillar, in an almost secret room, was the V.I.P. section, the area where we always ate.

And there he was, Derrick Cook, a little older looking, but time had been good to him. Real good. He looked more rugged, more male model, with chiseled features and an adorable cleft in his chin. His amber eyes studied me from my head to my toes and back again. He winked one of those babies in approval and I winked back. Standing in an impeccable classic Hugo Boss single-breasted suit, he dripped with sophistication. I held my breath when I saw the Armani tie, the cream textured one I bought him for his birthday, tied in a perfect Windsor knot around his neck. The closer I walked toward him, the bigger the smirk on Derrick’s face. His right hand was stuffed in his pocket and as I approached, he took it out, took my hand and kissed it before kissing me on the check.

“You’re beautiful. As always.”

“Thank you.”

Dinner with Derrick was always an event. The best of everything—food, service, chef, table, wine. He knew how best to charm a woman out of her mind and her clothes and he wasn’t subtle about it either.

“I have to admit, I was excited about this evening. Now I’m through the roof,” he said pulling my chair out.

“Why? Are you expecting something tonight?”

“Just the pleasure of your company.”

Derrick sat down across from me and we stared at each other. Just stared. For the life of me, at that moment, I didn’t remember why we ever broke up. He was exactly what a glamour guy should be, successful, confident, cocky, and sexy. Of course a multi-million dollar bank account didn’t hurt either. The more we stared at each other, the more I felt the back of my neck and my cheeks grow warm. I was blushing and nervous! I was actually nervous looking at this man of men who was winning me over quicker than I wanted to admit. We should just bypass the pleasantries of dinner and Derrick should take me home right now. Fred could shot that damn arrow tomorrow morning.

“Were you surprised to hear from me?” I asked breaking the staring contest.

“Not really. I knew this day would come. You were the perfect woman for me. You still are.”

Lordy.

Just as I started to blush for the 100th time, the waiter came to take our order. I reached for the glass of water to take a sip before looking at our waiter.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, almost choking on a piece of ice. “It’s you.”

Standing in a white waiter’s jacket and black bow-tie was hot pizza delivery guy, formerly hot stranger boy, and now hot waiter man. This look was cleaner than the others I’d seen him in. Not that he wasn’t hygienic before but his grooming stock increased big time. His chestnut hair was combed and slicked back as if he stepped out of the shower 10 minutes ago. He stood up as straight as a board and, except for the tiny smile that was emanating from his pink lips, Jake, aka Teeth, looked uncomfortable.

All of a sudden so was I.

“Hello again, madam.” He answered with a dry and even tone.

What? No “hey, love”? No salute? No eye twinkle? Lame. Robot Jake wasn’t fun at that moment and I was sad about that. Just then, Derrick leaned in and asked about the brief interaction.

“Derrick, this is Jake.” I said pointing at him. “We keep running into each other. Actually, he ran into me.”

Jake suppressed a laugh and then coughed. “Nice to meet you, sir.” He readjusted his stance. “May I take your order?”

What a disappointment Jake was! Where was that guy with the killer smile, the laid back demeanor, and the much awesome tattoo on his forearm? I missed him.

Stop it, Marty! Jake is the waiter. Derrick is the date. Pull yourself together or you’ll end up alone with 100 cats all named Pinwheel.

Derrick nodded and ordered for both of us before I even had a chance to look at the menu. I didn’t even know what he ordered just that it involved him speaking in a language other than English and it was all slathered in white wine reduction sauce. I began feeling the slightest bit unhappy and I didn’t know why. The night was going to so well. Boy and girl reunited and it felt so good. Derrick wanted to rekindle our romance, now, right now. Not in a week or a year but when it counted the most, here and now. Chemistry was happening at Chez Pierre and now it was fizzling, at least with me. Thankfully, I could tell from Derrick’s I-want-to-devour-you stare, the feeling wasn’t mutual.

What was I thinking? I needed to concentrate on getting that loving feeling back. It was just that Jake’s presence took me by surprise that’s all. In the past two days, I had run into him three times and each time it was in a different capacity. So obviously, I was rattled; I expected to see just any old waiter. And of course he wasn’t himself! Hello! He was just doing his job, that’s all. It was, after all, Chez Pierre.

The rest of our date was smooth, so very smooth, until Derrick had to step away for a very important business phone call.

Now I remembered. Derrick was Mr. Work-a-holic. So many meals were interrupted by the business phone call, meetings, and faxes. Ugh! It was all going so well, too.  I could overlook that. After all he was running his own business. Who else would be taking those phone calls? It was the price of genius and I would learn to live with it.

At that moment, Jake came by to fill the glasses.

“Hey love,” he whispered under his breath. “Sorry so formal. The gig and all.”

I sat up and my insides jumped with joy. There was the Jake I knew.

“That’s alright, I understand. So how many jobs do you have?”

He chuckled, the wine bottle cradled in his hands. I could see the hint of his tattoo hidden under his jacket’s sleeve. “Only two. Trying to pay for my last semester of grad school.”

“What are you studying?”

“My MBA. Almost done.”

“Impressive but waiter and pizza delivery jobs pay the bills?”

“They do for now,” he winked as he placed the bottle back on the table. “I’ve gotta get back to my other customers now. Have a nice rest of your date, Marty. See you around, love.”

Jake marched back toward the kitchen. Seconds later, Derrick returned, still handsome and still charming.

“Miss me?”

“Lots.”

And there it was again. Spark. Derrick looked at me and I looked at him and, dare I say it, we were undressing each other with our eyes. Then Derrick raised his right eyebrow. Yup, he was intrigued by me and I loved being his mystery.

This was it! I hope Fred was taking aim. I wanted a couple of beats. I didn’t feel anything. Wait, was I suppose to feel something? Fred never mentioned that. Surely something would be felt. An overwhelming sense of love or attraction. But nothing was going on inside of me.

“Shall I get the check?”

“Of course, I’ll meet you out front.”

I excused myself from the table to go to the ladies room. Once I was in there, I looked under the stalls. No one. Running to door, I locked it.

“Fred?”

No answer.

“Fred?”

Still no cherub.

“Fred!”

All of a sudden, Fred popped right in front of me holding a plate of lasagna and a fork. His chin was covered in Mariana sauce as was the napkin tucked in front of his black collared shirt. Except for the mess, Fred looked downright dapper with his khaki slacks. His hair was slicked back, making him look less like a car salesman and more of a Casanova.

“Doesn’t that always happen? Just when you’re on a date, there is a mortal needing your help.”
Fred waddled toward the sink counter, placed his plate on top and removed his soiled napkin from his shirt. He waddled back toward me, stuffed his hands in his pockets and gawked at me.

“What?”

“Hello! Making a connection, a spark with a beautiful man out there! Shoot the freaking arrow already.”

Rolling his eyes, Fred took out a small contraption, a two-way pager looking thing, from his pocket. Using both of his hands, he played with the buttons for awhile.

And here I thought the Gods would upgrade to an iPhone already.

“Well?”

Fred put up a finger telling me to wait. When he finally closed the two-way and stuffed it back in his pocket, he looked at me.

“Nope. It’s not him.”

“What? You’ve got to be joking! He’s feelin’ me, I’m feelin’ him. If there were any more sparks out there this place would be on fire.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Marty. He ain’t it. Now if you will excuse me, there’s a nymph waiting for me to continue our date so…”

“No, way!” I stomped toward him, my hands rolled up in a fist on my hips. “There is something there, still there, between us. You said a connection. We’re connecting all over the place.”

“That may be but the machine doesn’t lie. He ain’t it. I can’t shoot.”

And with that, Fred walked back to his lasagna plate, picked it up and popped out.

Well, what the hell? I was so confused about the whole thing. So not fair! But you know what? Now I don’t care. Derrick was out there waiting for me. Valentine’s curse be damned! There were worse people to be attached to than Derrick. He’s my connection, my spark, and if we hook up tonight, we’ll be back together and that will end this prophecy from the Gods. Not Cupid, or his cousin, or some lava lamp looking hourglass. So there!

Unlocking the door, I made my way toward the front of the restaurant ready to seal the deal. But something didn’t sound right. Pierre usually kept his restaurant’s noise level at a murmur, but yet it sounded louder than it did earlier in the evening. The city’s premier Italian restaurant sounded like a T.G.I.Friday’s on a Friday. I continued to walk. The noise grew louder and ballooned into shouts and plates crashing on the floor. A woman’s shrill cut through the noise like a hot knife through butter as more plates crashed.

As I turned the corner, I froze at a scene so dramatic that it could only be described as something out of a Spanish soap opera. A frenzied woman, screaming at the top of her lungs, flung plates and silverware at Derrick as he waved his hands in an attempt to stop her. Pierre, who is usually so calm, was cursing in Italian and trying to get the woman to calm down. Waiters and busy boys ducked for cover and patrons gathered their belongings as they bolted toward the door. As the woman flung the last dish, Derrick ducked down moments before the gold-rimmed plate smashed into the wall. With her blond hair like a lion’s mane, she searched around for something else. It was at that moment one of the waiters grabbed her from behind and held on for dear life. His mouth formed a “grr” and his light brown hair was disheveled. I could distinctly see the bead of sweat rolling down his nose. The wild woman squirmed against his arms like a floundering fish searching for air. Her dress, which I could easily see was once a Carolina Herrera, was soaked in sauce, noodle and bits of salad. Those same bits of green, orange, purple, and red were sprinkled in her untamed hair. She had a look of a woman ravaged by rage and insanity.

“I want a divorce,” she yelled toward Derrick. Her voice was already showing signs of becoming hoarse. “And I’m taking everything, you cheating bastard!”

“Derrick, what is this?” I asked.

The wild woman’s sharp head movement jolted my insides and they began to quiver with fear. She looked at me as if I had taken something that had belonged to her. Flicks of red swirled in her eyes and if I moved just one inch in any direction, she would pounce on me like Cheetah on its pray.

Uh oh.

“I’m his wife BITCH!” Mrs. Cook struggled to get free and almost did. A second waiter grabbed her before that happened. “IS THIS THE WOMAN YOU’RE CHEATING ON ME WITH? IS THIS YOUR LITTLE WHORE!”

Derrick, the man who hours earlier was sophisticated sophistication, was now cowering behind a chair. Slow and steady, he crept up, a terrified look planted on his face. Covered in the same stuff as his wife, he reminded me of a little boy who lost his mother at the mall. He looked at his wife first and then at me. A veil of indecision washed over his face. Or, perhaps, that was the look of a man who was forming an explanation in the time it took for a person to blink.

“I can explain,” he offered, still timid and using the chair as a protective barrier.

Mrs. Cook grunted and wiggled for freedom. The waiters held her tighter.

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” I said. Derrick didn’t move but kept his glance on me. Ms. Cook stood still and watched the scene unfold. “Obviously Derrick, this isn’t going to work. Thanks for an otherwise memorable evening.”

Stepping around shattered glassware and food, I made my way past Ms. Cook but I didn’t dare look at her. She made no attempts at getting free. With special care, I made it down the single step, moved through the now empty main dining floor, and out into the night—into another day of uncertainty.

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To read The Last Single Girl: A plan hatches click here

By dinner time, hot stranger boy was out of my head and a plan was pinned firmly in place. Forget online matchmaking; that was going to take too much time. I had to make a connection with someone whom I had already made a connection with, past boyfriends. But not just any of them, the elite group with which I could have had a future if I had fallen for them. All it took was a spark, right? A mutual adoration and Fred could shoot an arrow and then it would be done. A brilliant plan of action, if I do say so myself.

I plopped down on the floor of my living room and rummaged through a shoe box of old cell phones. A bit of a pack rat, I’d kept my cell phones long after I’ve moved on, especially since not every number made it to my current phone. It’s a way of weeding out the numbers that are no longer needed. The Darwin theory of cell numbers, only the fittest survived. And, of course, since I changed phones every time I could, there was a great selection in the cell graveyard. There was my shiny period where my flip phone was pink and encrusted with flashy stones. Then my practical period, where my gray and silver phone was no frills and all business. Super talk-a-holic phone with a Playboy bunny chase and earpiece (that was before Bluetooth) and the worn out numbers on the plastic buttons. I had every brand, too. Nokia, Motorola, Samsung. Heck, I even still had my PrimeCo phone.

I paired the corresponding phone with the corresponding charger, found plugs and began the charging. Using my current phone, a mature, an iPhone, I ordered a pizza. Grabbing a yellow legal pad and a pen from the desk, I walked to the first phone—the pink one with the stones—and flipped it open. I punched the power button, then the down arrow and started my trip down memory lane. Some names and numbers looked familiar like Michelle’s old number. Some were way out of left field like one entry that said Zorro. (Who the heck was Zorro?) And then there were other names I hadn’t thought about since the ice melted and humans were walking upright. Scrolling until the end of the list, I wrote down names and numbers as I went, recalling, reminiscing, and remembering years of old relationships. Somewhere among these cell phones, something went wrong with my love life.

By the time I finished with my sleek, slider phone, used during my trendy period, the door bell rang. Digging through my purse, I pulled out a 20, ran to the door and opened it.

“You!”

“Oh hey, love.”

Standing just a few feet short of my doorway was hot stranger boy, now hot pizza delivery guy. Now instead of a white t-shirt, he wore his company issued, red collar shirt with the pizza place logo on the left side. With the pizza in his left hand, he saluted me with the right. Yes, saluted me but not in the rigged way a soldier would for their superiors. No. Hot pizza delivery guy saluted me in the “hey how you doing” way that oozed rat pack during the Sinatra hey days. His smile was still as infectious as before but even more so. Those chestnut locks were caged under a red baseball cap with the bill turned to the back.

“If you came to make sure I was alright, I’m doing great.”

“I can see that,” he chuckled.

I’m sure he could.

We stood there for seconds but it seemed more like days. Him with his smile and me with mine. And then I remembered, I was hungry.

“Oh, let me take that,” I said. He passed the box to me and I handed him the money. With the edges of his grin still tickling his earlobes, he dug in his pockets for change. I waved my hands and told him to keep it.

“So this isn’t fair,” I said trying to keep him at the door longer. “You knock me down and you find out where I live. I don’t even know your name.”

He laughed and stretched out his hand. “Name’s Jake but my friends call me Teeth.”

“Teeth?”

He laughed again. “Cause I’m always smiling.”

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Okay, so I lied but it’s a small one. “My name is Marty.”

I reached out to shake his hand. A nice firm grip; not a tight one that says he’s in control but not one that’s too limp that says he’s a push over. He was also not too anything else. Not too tall, not too short. Not too tan, not too light. Not too muscular, not too skinny. Charming but not over confident. Sexy as hell but not too obvious. I wanted to pull him into my apartment, get to know him better, maybe ask him out. That was all lust. No spark. So I need to keep looking. Besides, who wants to date the pizza boy?

“Well, enjoy your pizza,” he said pulling away. “I’m sure we’ll bump into each other soon.”

“I’ll brace myself for that,” I giggled.

With a wave and a smile, Jake a.ka. Teeth, the hot pizza delivery guy walked away. I closed my door and stood behind it, my back pressed up against it. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and counted backwards from 10. I needed to refocus.As I opened my eyes, Frank was sitting on my couch halfway through a slice of pepperoni and cheese.

“Hey, what are you doing here eating my pizza?”

Frank inhaled as cheesy, stringy goodness sagged between his mouth and the slice. I ran for a napkin and handed it to him just as the cheese plopped on the front of his white shirt.

“You mortals have it good. There’s nothing like this on Mt. Olympus, I’ll tell you that,” he said, with a mouth full of pizza.

“I bet.”

Fred chewed and chewed and reminded me of cows eating cud. I was curious to know what else Mt. Olympus didn’t have and what it did have. What was it like to have that privilege to live where Gods lived? To eat what they ate. To talk and interact with them.

“It’s not bad. Apollo is a divo but we’re use to it.”

“FRED!”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Ugh, why are you here anyway?” I plopped down in the chair next to the couch and flung my leg over the arm rest.

“Obviously, I didn’t come here for a visit. How’s it going?”

“It’s only the first day, Frank. Cut me some slack. Besides, I have a list going and I was about to call them up before you decided to conquer my dinner like Troy.”

Frank chuckled before taking another bite. I reached for slice myself and joined him in some impromptu dining. Dinner with a cherub. Definitely on my highlight list.

“I knew I liked you.” Fred’s mouth was full of pizza. “Nice way to work a Troy reference in.”

“How was that war for you guys anyway?”

“Messy.”

Then we went straight into business. I told him about the list and my theory: if there was a spark there then, there may still be one now, I told him.

“Interesting strategy. It just may work.”

Then I told him about M and how I couldn’t be her maid of honor and how she wasn’t talking to me. He listened to every word, swallowed his last piece of pizza and hopped off the couch.

“Well then, I’ll be checking up on you,” he said.

“WHOA! What about M?”

“What about her? Sounds like she’s doing great even though the wedding on Valentine’s Day is cliché but you mortals seem to like that.”

“Hello! My best friend isn’t talking to me because she thinks I don’t want to be in her wedding.”

Fred shook his tiny finger at me and waddled toward me. “You can’t think about her right now. It’s about you. If she’s really your friend, she won’t stay mad long.”

With a wave, he popped out of my living room leaving me with my mouth wide open and a response still sitting in my throat. I guess he was right about everything since I’m the one about to become an official spinster. Taking the cell phone and legal pad from the coffee table, I said a little prayer and dialed the first number—Derrick Cook.

Derrick was the first glamour guy I dated, and what glamour he was! Basic stats: 6’2”, light sandy hair, a basketballer’s body without the NBA ticket price, smart, owns his own venture capitalist firm. He was totally into two things, his business and his car, back then a brand new midnight Mercedes with camel-colored leather seats. I loved that car too and mourned it when we broke up.

Our courtship lasted about a year and there was interest there on my part. But he had just started his business and I didn’t want to play second fiddle to something I couldn’t compete with. So we broke up. Maybe with time and experience, we’ve both mellowed out.

“Cook and Associates.” The voice on the other end was female and professional. I gave her my name and asked to speak with DerrickHis His secretary answered the phone on the second ring. She asked my name and why I was calling.

“We’re old friends.”

The voice transferred me and on the second ring, Derrick picked up.

“Derrick Cook.”

Oh, I had forgotten about his voice—super sexy with a sprinkle of confident arrogance. I loved it then and I really love it now. Seriously, Derrick could read me the phone book and it’d be a turn on. My little heart started to flutter and all those memories flooded my mind.
“Hello. This is a blast from your past.”

“Marty. I wouldn’t forget that voice ever. The woman who got away.”

Oh, really? He couldn’t forget my voice? This sounded promising.

“Well, here I am,” My voice dripped with come-hither flirtation.

“It’s been awhile.”

“Sure has.”

We chit chatted some more about how long it had truly been since last we spoke (seven years), how our lives were going (his business has grown by 100 percent) and how different the world was (so different). Then came the invite I was waiting for.

“Have dinner with me.”

“We’ve gotten demanding in our old age, Derrick. That sounded like an order,” I cooed.

“It has to be. I want to see you.”

Something about how he said the word “want” that just melted my butter. He wanted to see me. He asked me out for dinner because he wanted to see me for longer than 10 minutes. Not drinks or coffee or even a walk in the park. Dinner. Like a date. This was going splendidly. We’ll see each other. He’ll be interested. Fred will shoot. And we’ll make it to M’s wedding.

“Well, I want to be seen,” I replied.

We made plans for the next night at Chez Pierre, the most expensive Italian place in the city. Derrick’s tastes hadn’t changed over the past seven years. Expensive and good. Hopefully, his tastes in women haven’t either.

Not wanting to put all my eggs in one basket, I made the rest of the phone calls. Nelson Perry, Jay Connelly, Lorenzo Castillo. Those were the ghosts of my past waiting to be resurrected. I called them and set up dates with Lorenzo and Nelson the following two nights after Derrick. Jay ended up being gay and had come out of the closet about a year ago. I knew when we were dating that he wasn’t that into me but to his credit one of the best boyfriends I’ve ever had. We made a date for coffee anyway because we both missed talking to each other.

So there it was, Derrick the venture capitalist, Nelson the corporate lawyer, and Lorenzo the pharmacist. One of these three will be the love of my life. Hopefully, Fred has his arrow ready because I’m about to blow singlehood out of the water.

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“Hey, my name is Fred.”

The Oscar the Grouch voice came from a guy who couldn’t be more than four and a half feet tall while standing on two phone books. The love child of Danny DeVito and a used car salesman, he had the slickest black hair, shiny enough to see the reflection of the couple sitting next to us. He was a stump of a man to say the least. Fred slid into the chair in front of me and I was shocked that he could reach something that high without help. It’s not that I’m against dating short people but this was a stretch, even for me.

But tonight wasn’t about appearances, it was about connections and I had seven minutes and thirty seconds left to make one with, um, Fred.

“Marty,” I responded shaking his hand.

In spite of his looks, Fred had a baby-like quality that made me want to coo and pinch his rosy cheeks. I had never seen this guy before on the speed dating circuit and wasn’t really intrigued by him until he sat down at my table. It’s not like he turned me on, but something about him made me want to pay attention regardless of his silly 1970’s butterfly-collared sports jacket. He nodded, I smiled and then…nothing. Not even a-beautiful-weather-we’re-having reference. No fizzle. No connection.

“I have this feeling that you’re looking for something.” He slid his hands on the linen tablecloth. The twinkle in his eye gave away his intensions—this little worm thought because I’m speed dating that I’m desperate! Yuck!

Yeah, I was looking for something—a way out of this situation. This was my final date of the night at the Lonely Hearts Speed Dating night and I was quite sure that it would be the final one of my life. The last date ever and so help me I’ll sign up for the nunnery tomorrow and put an end to my miserable existence of a single girl.

My name is Marty Sandoval, I’m 29-years-old and I’m the last single girl in my social circle. I’ve been a devoted bridesmaid five times, a willing maid of honor twice (as if there was honor in being a maid) and have been set up on more countless blind dates, friend dates, and causal I-think-he’s-your-type gatherings than I care to remember. I’ve been dating since kindergarten. Yes, kindergarten when Danny Richardson pushed me on the playground because he said I was ugly.

Since that faithful day, I’ve dated and broken up with Mr. Popular, Mr. Hunky, Mr. Workaholic, Mr. Almost Right and Mr. What Was I Thinking. And yet here I am, having kissed nearly every frog in existence and not finding the Prince. My pucker is tired and so am I.

With so much experience under my belt, I’ve become a professor of sorts and even have my own theory. Men fall into two categories—glamour or bookworm. The glamour men get the full Marty experience. I’m talking about drop-dead gorgeous, like J-Lo or Rosario Dawson’s younger, hotter sister. Hair and makeup are flawless and my outfit—like a dream of a dream-accentuating the curves worth noticing. I’m temptation in a pair of stilettos. Glamour guys tend to be boyfriend material—they have their jobs, places, cars, good credit, no record, professional.

Then are the bookworm guys. For them, I take it down a bit. Glasses, muted makeup, slacks or nice jeans, heels not stilettos, and straight lines over curves. Not that these guys don’t deserve the glamorous me, they just can’t handle it. They’re the just for now type—menial job , lives with a roommate or two, drives an economy car like a Neon or Civic, and makes enough to pay the bills every month, i.e he’s still working on his residency, in law school, grad school, or some sort of professional training. Bookworm guys are generally good guys but they’re not ones that I would consider for the long haul, ya know? Come on, I’m looking for a soul mate, a husband, an active member of team Marty. A bookworm guy just isn’t on my level that way. But I’ll date them just the same because some bookworm guys have the potential of being glamour guys. Haven’t found one yet but I’m hoping.

To make sure that I’m pairing myself to a glamour guy I run background checks. Say what you will, a girl can’t be too careful nowadays. Background checks aren’t that difficult really. I’m lucky that I happen to be a researcher for the local paper. I have it all at my disposal; all I need is a name and a birth date, sometimes an address. Like for example for this speed dating event, I talked the lifestyles reporter into asking the organizer for a list of the men who would be participating tonight. They’re best friends and that reporter owes me several, ass-saving favors. Momma didn’t raise no fool—research is the key to by-passing life’s little hiccups. With two weeks before St. Valentine’s Day, I couldn’t risk being paired with just anybody. Before I even stepped in the front door, I knew who was glamour, who was bookworm, who had the potential to be upgraded. Everyone except Fred, ironically. He must have slipped on the list at the last minute.

“Excuse me.” I flashed my signature broad smile paired with the innocent eye squint. I hadn’t decided what kind of guy Fred was yet but I had six minutes and 45 seconds left to find out.

“You’re looking for something. Here. Am I right?”

I gave him a light-hearted chuckle, a tussle of my chestnut colored bangs, and a delighted sigh. I’d done this type of interaction so many times, I can literally hear an announcer in my head giving the play by play.

“Aren’t we all looking for something?” I keep my tone light and jovial.

“Marty, stop playing games. When are you going to be honest with yourself?”

“Excuse me?”

Fred’s wrinkled brow was anchored by a pair of opal-colored eyes and a smirk that dared me to tell him different. There was enough sass in his glance to make a grown man whimper and a grown woman take a step back. At this particular moment, he was 10 times his size. Then I realized what category Fred was in—jerk.

“No, excuse me.” Fred crossed his arms across his chest. “You have been smiling and chatting all night but you have no idea who any of these guys are. You complain about not having a man but you keep putting yourself in situations where you won’t be able to meet that special someone and I, for one, am sick of it.” He ended his attack with an assertive nod.

My smile faded and I gave him my best death stare. “You don’t know me. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Let’s just say I know you well enough and that your fear about being the last single girl will come true if you don’t shape up.”

Someone call the offended police because there has been a violation! Stumpy with the Jimmy Carter suit was about to know what a size seven black leather pump tasted like. I crossed my legs and sat back in the plush purple chair. “I don’t think I like your tone, Fred.”

Fred’s expression eased up but the insults continued. “You hunt down the type of man you want—one with money and an upward mobile profession—and run background checks on them. You don’t call back the ones that don’t interest you, which happen to be the ones who like you most, and you complain to anyone who will listen that you are done with the dating scene.”

My blood ran cold. Who was this guy? He had me pegged right and it didn’t sound pretty as it tumbled out of his mouth. I felt uncomfortable and insulted at the same time and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. Needless to say, the intrigue I felt for good ole Fred had faded like perfume during a heat wave and was replaced by anger.

Fred sat there with a grin on his face, a mile wide and all teeth. I wanted to punch them all in.

“I don’t—”

“Wait, I’m not done.” He interrupted me and lifted his palm. “You are angry at me. You wonder who I am and how do I know all these things about you. You’re mostly wondering how I have the audacity to tell you this in what is your…uh, what did you call it…the last date ever. It’s not. And trust me when I say this, the nunnery doesn’t want you.”

How did he know that? How did he know what was going through my mind? All the blood rushed to my feet and I began to shiver. My anger was replaced with knots in my gut and a mouth as dry as the Sahara in August. I could kid myself about what was going on but this guy had my thoughts in the palm of his hands. The nunnery thing was clever and an easy guess, but the last date ever, moments after I thought it, was beyond a parlor trick. Fred, this guy I met minutes ago, was reading my mind.

I’d seen enough apocalyptic movies to know mind-readers are no good and signaled the end of the world. That maybe an exaggeration but isn’t the person of color always to the first to die in those movies anyway? I wanted to run, flee from this scene but I couldn’t make my muscles move. My brain was screaming at them but they just wouldn’t budge.

Fred’s smile narrowed into a worried frown.

“Whoa, I’m not trying to kill you and it’s not the end of the world. Stop being scared you’re wigging me out. Let me explain.”

I jumped back in my seat.  In response, Fred moved in turtle speed. He pulled a card from his pocket, placed it on the table and slid it over to me. Leaning forward, but still apprehensive, I read the card without picking it up.

Fred Solis – Cupid

He continued. “I’m here to help you find your soulmate” His stubby fingers did the air quotes around soul-mate.

With my brows bunched up in the middle of my forehead, I stared at him for a second.

“You don’t look like Cupid. Where’s your wings and your arrows?”

“Sorry, the card is a bit misleading. I’m a cupid, not THE cupid. The short, chubby dude in the diaper is my cousin. I work for him.”

Note to self: no more speed dating.

“I agree,” he said. “Speed dating is overrated.”

“Ah! Stop doing that!”

The scream stopped all conversation in the room like a Mac Truck that didn’t see a stop sign in time. Eleven pairs of eyes stared at us and the blood that was pooling at my feet rushed to my cheeks.

“It’s okay everyone, I was just reading her mind. She’s just excited, that’s all.”

The pacified crowd returned to their dates and the mumbling continued. I turned to look at Fred and saw that his grin had returned.

“I love it when that happens,” His eyes sparkled and fingers flicked in delight. “Okay let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Business? I don’t even know what’s going on!”

“You want to find the love of your life, don’t cha?”

Before I could answer, Fred hopped off the seat, took a small blue velvet pouch from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of me. With the care of a mother to her newborn, he opened the bag and removed a miniature hourglass, the size of a roll of quarters, with grey sand. I had expected him to place it on one of the ends but instead he left it on its side.

“Whoa.”

“Cool it, Keanu. I’m workin’.” Fred’s gruffly voice was knife-sharp. “Where are my glasses?”

After a quick pat, he found them in his pants pocket. Wow, I never would have guessed that Cupid’s cousin was blind. Not only were his avocado green rimmed glasses bi-focals, they were as thick as plexiglass on the Pope’s car. I guess after centuries, civilizations, and the invention of, well everything, it was too much to expect an ancient symbol of love to have perfect vision.
Once the glasses were balanced on the tip of his nose, Fred’s attention returned to the tiny hourglass. With tender hands he picked it up, inspected it for a few moments and finally returned it to the table, turning it on one of its ends. Almost as soon as he set it down, the sand began turning an orange sherbet color and then pink, creating a mood lamp effect. With a touch of his finger, the psychedelic timepiece grew as big as a toddler and I could see the detail on the wooden handles. Carvings of Greek gods and goddess, like those I saw in books during my Intro to Mythology class in college, were etched in the columns. Some I recognized; Athena, Apollo, Zeus, Aphrodite. Other Mt. Olympus residents were more difficult to recognize. Straining to remember what I learned in a college class 100 years ago, I tried to recall my Gods and Goddess family tree. All I remember was that Zeus had many children and he was always getting busy.
Why didn’t I pay more attention in that class? I didn’t remember Cupid having a cousin. He had a mother, Aphrodite, goddess of love. He had a wife, don’t remember her name. Dad? I think I was absent that day. But a cousin? I didn’t remember that.

As the hourglass grew, so did the silence of the crowd. Looking away from the table, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Time had stopped. The woman’s face at the next table had frozen at mid-laugh. The guy across the room, the one with a Mazada and college debt, had his hand in the air and his mouth was contorted into an unrecognizable word. Water poured from pitchers was suspended in mid-air and the flickering lights from the candles on each table stood still.

I hadn’t noticed that I’d gotten up from the table and was now standing next to Fred, mesmerized by the impossible scene in front of me. The entire scene was unreal as if someone pushed a celestial pause button. I was beyond simply believing that Fred was who he said he was and now wished someone could pinch me as I was sure I was dreaming.

“Ouch!”

Fred grinned. “Sorry, but since we’re on a time crunch I need you to hop on board as soon as possible.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Fred yanked his glasses from his face and stuffed them back in his pocket. “Why do I always get the difficult ones?” With a sigh, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back to my seat. For a short person he sure had a lot of horsepower! Fred paced in front of me for a couple of seconds, his hand stroking his pointy chin. Pace. Pace. Pace. Then a stop so sudden, I thought I heard tires screech.

“Okay, let’s go through the basics. I am a Cupid,” he said pointing to himself. “Obviously not the cherub looking fellow you mortals know and love but a Cupid nonetheless.”

He paused and looked straight into my eyes. “Is any of this registering?”

“Okay, you’re Cupid,” I respond. “Definitely not human. No human can do what you just did. So spare me the dramatics, dude. You have my attention. What’s up?”

Fred’s closed mouth smile curled up at one end. “You’re smarter than the others. So let me break the news to you, kid. We’re worried about you up there,” he said pointing toward the ceiling. “Trying to get you to fall in love has been a practice in patience.”

Fred returned to his pacing, quicker this time. “Just when we think we have you cornered, you move. And then this whole background check, selective dating thing you do. What is that? That’s not how you fall in love! You meet. We shoot. Happily ever after. Not that hard.”

I rose one of my arched eyebrows at Fred. “Okay, so shoot one of these dudes to fall in love with me now. Maybe that guy in the black blazer. He’s a doctor with investments and a solid credit history.”

“Stupid mortal! It’s not that simple!” he yelled. “We can’t just shot anyone. It just needs to happen organically and there hasn’t been one man you’ve dated that has lived up to your high expectations. You haven’t been inspired. So we haven’t been inspired. Therefore, no shooting.”

“Hold on, don’t you guys shoot people to fall in love at first sight?”

With his hands on his hips, Fred rolled his eyes. “That’s a myth the greeting card companies have spoon feed you mortals. We don’t make people fall in love! There has to be some interest there on both parties. Then there are formulas for compatibility, length of relationship, blah, blah, blah, yada,yada,yada an arrow is made and shot.”

Cupid’s cousin was a Seinfeld fan?

“So wait, people have to be attracted to each other first and then fall in love?”

“Not everyone who is attracted to each other falls in love, Marty.”

Good point. “Okay, so point me in the right direction and me and him will meet and you can do your thing….”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Fred pointed to the hourglass. “Time is running out for you. Because of your selectivity and lack of inspiration, Cupid has put a deadline for you to fall in love. That’s why I’m here, to help you. You have to fall in love by Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s two weeks! I can’t fall in love in two weeks! What happens if I can’t do it?”

“You’ll be single for the rest of your life.”

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