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The woman’s smile falters, and she straightens the gray vest over a white dress shirt and flicks graying brown hair over her shoulder. “Welcome to the first ever, and hopefully annual, cuffing season speed dating event. It’s lovely to see everyone at their…best.” She says the last word through gritted teeth, clearly seeing the dog and pony shit show of men taking their seats at the small desks being used for speed dating stations.
“All of the men are taking their seats. Women, you should find a seat with whatever man you wish to start with. No worries if you don’t get your first choice. You’ll meet all our…” She pauses and pastes a fake smile on her face. “Well, you’ll get a turn with each of our lovely gentlemen here tonight.”
I snort into my drink. “I really hate you right now, Heather,” I say, gesturing to the men sitting down and waiting with hopeful puppy eyes that a woman will pick their seat to start first.
“Nonsense. One of these could be a diamond in the rough. A millionaire, even. What’s that show where people pretend they’re not rich and do normal things?” she asks, snapping her fingers.
“Undercover Boss? You’re really comparing a shit speed dating event to an amazing show like Undercover Boss?”
“I knew you’d know it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom gets close to my face so that I can smell the beer on her breath. “How many hours of TV would you say you watch in an average week?”
“Come on, ladies,” a bouncer says, nudging Mom and me away from the bar before I can respond. “Find a seat. It’ll be over with before you know it.”
“My doctor said the same thing last month when I got my flu shot.”
Mom smiles and waves before choosing a man of about twenty across the room. The man’s smile lights up as soon as she sits down, and I choose the man next to her. “You could have given birth to him, you know?”
“Don’t dull my sparkle,” she replies from the side of her mouth.
I face my first dating contestant and immediately lean as far back into my seat as I can go. If serial killers could date, the man in front of me may as well be wearing an orange jumpsuit. Glasses from the last century sit on his face, and he doesn’t blink. He licks his lips like he’s about to eat something delicious, and he stares at me with dull, red eyes.
“I’m going to start the clock now,” the woman on stage says. “We have some late stragglers, so please grab an empty seat before I start the clock. Come in and find a seat.” She gestures from the stage, but I don’t turn and look at the new people entering the room. I’m frozen in terror at the probable strangler across from me.
“You have three minutes starting…now!” she says, starting the timer on her phone.
My date and I stare at each other. When I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out.
Next to me, Mom starts telling the guy in his late teens about her daily yoga and exceptional flexibility. My mouth feels like it has a thick coating of dust in it, and my hands shake.
“You have pretty skin,” the man across from me says.
“Sweet mercy. No loan-free existence is worth this,” I whisper to myself.
“What’s that?”
“Uh, nothing. I’m Clarice. What’s your name?” I can do this. I can be normal and have a normal conversation with the serial killer that wants a woman with pretty skin. I just won’t go anywhere with him so he can’t turn me into a coffee table basket, and I won’t give him my real name. Mom says I have to pick one of these men. I simply won’t pick this one.
“I’m Leroy.”
“That’s an unusual name for our generation. Is it a family name?”
“Yes.”
I lean forward, hoping he’ll elaborate. “Who in your family is named Leroy?”
“My uncle,” he says. I swear to fuck, this man still hasn’t blinked. “We don’t talk about him, though. Not since he went to jail.”
I close my mouth. I’m not talking again. Maybe not ever.
I look at my pants, wishing they were my standard sweatpants and that I’m wiping popcorn butter on them as I watch TV in the confines of my apartment. I suddenly feel so exhausted that I want to put my head down on the table in front of me and cry myself to sleep. How am I going to get through five months with one of these men?
Leroy and I stare at each other for the rest of our time, and I cross my arms. I don’t have to speak, and maybe if I make him feel uneasy, he’ll talk for both of us. He doesn’t speak, though, and only licks his lips at me. I’m tempted to tell him that he’ll have seriously chapped lips this winter if he keeps doing that, but it’s not worth the effort.
“Time's up!” the woman yells. “Time for the men to switch seats. Please move to your right.”
