“One lousy date and you’re giving up?” Joan spluttered in exasperation.
Amanda was subtler.
“So Erik wasn’t a match made in heaven. You didn’t have too tiresome a night, did you?”
“Tiresome?” I asked her. “Who says tiresome? Joan, are you getting her hooked on those Jane Austen novels?”
“Don’t change the subject,” bossed Joan. “Answer her!”
I had to confess that although Erik had not been my Prince Charming, he was also neither a Big Bad Wolf or a Frog (just waiting for my kiss). He was just like The Guy Who Sells Jack the Magic Beans, or some other nebulous character that everyone forgets.
“What do you want me to do?” I whined. “Just go up to strange men in the street and say, ‘Hi, I just got over my boyfriend after three years and I need a date?’”
We were sitting in one of the many coffee shops inspired by the ever-irritatingly successful show Friends. It had overstuffed couches, a sullen but hip wait staff and the same lack of black people (in New York, I swear). I never understood how these places made any money, as the earnest men and women who pay their outrageous $4 for a latte simply stay in one place for hours at a time with no intention of ever getting a refill.
They were getting money out of us, though. Amanda sipped a raspberry beer imported from Belgium and priced as though a plane had been chartered for that express purpose; Joan was enjoying a hot chocolate with enough whipped cream on it to inspire an entire series of porn flicks; I was having a simple mint tea, accompanied by an obscenely large Smores’ fondue, which I justified as a reward for even thinking about dating again.
“This place!” shrieked Joan.
I wiped melted chocolate off my chin and glanced at her quizzically.
“They have a blind date book!”
In an apparent effort to increase their clientele (or more likely to amuse themselves), the staff had concocted a ridiculous scheme whereby a willing victim fills out a form detailing such pertinent information as favorite movie lines and horoscope, along with vital statistics like sports team affiliations and hair color. All these forms go in a book and if someone wants to meet you after having their interest piqued by these scintillating facts, the downtrodden baristas would make the introduction.
It seemed like a ludicrous idea, but I had nothing to lose but my recently rediscovered dignity. After scoffing publicly at the lunacy of such a desperate stunt, I waited for the girls to hail a cab and told them to go ahead, because I wanted to stand outside and smoke a cigarette. Back in the coffee shop, I quietly snuck a form and plonked myself in an all-embracing armchair to commit to paper my various peculiarities.
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