Page 33 of The Seven Month Itch
A figure at the end of the hallway catches my eye on our way to the elevator.
Madison.
“Here we go,” I say under my breath, prompting Emma to look up. My lips twist at her curves, which are pressed against the short, off-the-shoulder lace dress that clings to her body. Is it see-through? The amount of lace I have on has nothing on her. It’s clear she’s dressed to kill, and knowing her intended target gives me a brief bout of acid reflux.
She stares at me with daggers in her eyes. A twisted smile forms. “Justice. I had no idea we were on the same floor.”
“I take it you’re going to speed dating too?” She won’t get the satisfaction of seeing me bothered.
“Sure am.” She takes in my outfit. “You look…professional.”
“And you look eager.” The elevator opens. “After you.”
Tension rises as the floors count down. This will be fine. Great. Wonderful. We can be in the same room while she makes a love connection with my ex. Happens all the time, like on one of those reality shows. Not a big deal.
Madison saunters away as soon as the elevator opens, leaving me with anxiety that greets me with a death grip and refuses to let go. My eyes land on the entrance, and I swallow a breath.
Easy, Jay. This isn’t that hard.
It’s all good. Everything is fine.
“Do you want to give yourself that pep talk any louder? I don’t think the women in the corner heard you,” Emma says with a raised eyebrow.
Crap, did I say that out loud?
“Yes, you did. Now stop talking to yourself before you scare people off.” She yanks my hand into hers and pulls me inside the restaurant.
Red rose petals form a pathway to a long row of white chairs and tables with scattered candles. Lights from town twinkle to illuminate the valley through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Champagne, madam?”
I give a quick curtsy and knock back two glasses on the waiter’s tray. He gapes at me like he hasn’t seen a woman about to lose her shit in front of a bunch of strangers. That’s right, buddy. I don’t give a flip tonight.Piss off. He dips his head and leaves after a brief staredown.
“Come on, let’s find our seats,” I say to Emma, who can’t stop laughing. I guess my pre-midlife crisis is funny.
The heavens bless me with Madison seven chairs away from mine. I would do a high kick if Emma wasn’t just as far. Looks like I’m on my own tonight. Another waiter comes by with more champagne. From what I understand, we get refills every time a “prospect” moves in front of us, like an adult version of musical chairs.
During registration, we filled out cards with a range of gender identities and sexual orientations. There are a series of speed dating events tonight based on how we identified and our ideal matches. Everyone wears a name tag noting their preferred pronouns and identities. My tag has “she/her” and “cishet woman,” and Emma wears one that says “she/her” and “cisheteroflexible woman.” She primarily desires cishet men but has the occasional same-sex attraction, though she’s never fully acted on the desire and doesn’t identify as bisexual.
A lady appears and explains what comes next. We’ll have five minutes with each person. If there’s a “spark,” you mark it on your scorecard. Should you match with someone, you’ll both goon a private date, with a formal invitation sent to your room that morning.
No pressure at all.
“Does anyone have any questions about tonight’s event?” the coordinator asks the fifteen of us who are seated. “We will have short breaks throughout, so please refrain from leaving your seat unless it’s an emergency.”
Does a nervous breakdown count?
“The government practices mind control through tap water.”
Five minutes seem like an eternity listening to Brian, a forty-something-year-old man who works at a zoo and is all about conspiracy theories. He has yet to ask me a single question, but I know everything about him. Let’s see, he spends his vacation time trekking God knows where to find Bigfoot, lives one door down from his mother, and has a piece of lettuce in his teeth so big it waves at me every time he speaks.
He has to sense there’s no chemistry. I lost all interest in the conversation four and a half minutes ago, but here we are. Deep in the bowels of purgatory.
“That’s time. Please move to the next person.”
Thank you, Jesus.
I glance Emma’s way when Brian gets up to move to his next victim. A man with olive skin and a million-dollar haircut in an all-black suit sits before her. Her lips part when they make eye contact, and I know the game is over before it starts.
