The Matchmaker's Medium (3 page)

Chapter Three

“How’s it hangin’?”

I looked up from staring into my orange-colored beer, and saw the juiciest, shiniest, pink and pouty lips I had ever seen on a guy, surrounded by a perfectly-trimmed goatee. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he smiled. Perfect, white, beautiful teeth between those lips.

God help me,
I thought, suddenly feeling a little too desperate and a lot too drunk.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, looking at all the empty chairs next to me. “Did your friends leave you here all by yourself? Or are they just late?”

Finally, I found my voice, “Neither.”

Motioning to the chairs, he asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

I snorted in disgust, “Be my guest. No one else will.”

He took a few minutes to sit, readjusting his shiny suit coat, taking off his hat and carefully placing it on the table. I used that time to grab a few cocktail napkins and wipe my face off. Sure, I was on the short road to divorce now, but I didn’t have to look like a total loser-mess in the process.

“So, if no one left you here, and you’re not waiting for anyone, why are you sitting alone?

I shrugged, decided now would be the perfect time to get totally blotto, and starting guzzling my orange beer.

“Hey, hey, slow down, there,” he said, reaching across the table and gently pulling the huge beer mug out of my hand.

“Sorry,” I said, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Uh-oh,” he said, pointing to the stack of napkins. “You got a little bit of something right about—here.” He pointed at his own face, making a big circle around his mouth area.

Oh, god, I forgot about my makeup!
I thought, about five seconds too late. I had decided this year I should dress like a witch, so there was a bunch of green makeup all over my face, and black lipstick on my mouth. By my own calculations, that meant right now I probably looked like a toad on a quick trip through the blender.

Nice.
I thought.
How can this night get any worse?

“Ha. Thanks. I forgot about the makeup.” Grabbing a napkin, I unzipped my purse and frantically searched for my compact. “Stupid purse. Always filled with a bunch of junk I don’t even use, which means I can never find the two things I actually
do
need when I want to.”

“That’s what the ladies
do
, sweet thing,” he said, leaning towards me. He smelled
incredible
, like some crazy mix of incense and coconut.

No wonder he’s wearing a pimp costume,
I thought,
he’s a perfect shoo-in.

“I guess,” I answered. I was always saying lame things in front of guys like him.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, girl.”

I found my compact, opened it and nearly dropped it on the floor when I saw myself. Green and black makeup were smeared all around my mouth, and there were tear-tracks running down the middle of my cheeks.

Perfectly matches the way I feel on the inside,
I thought, trying to minimize the damage by using the napkin, but failing miserably.

“Going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. My husband’s an asshole—sorry, almost-ex-husband—and I’m alone on Halloween night dressed in a witch costume with makeup smeared all over my face, guzzling orange beer.
That’s
what’s ‘going on’.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head, still looking right into my eyes. Even though I knew I looked terrible, I was starting to feel a warm sensation down below that I hadn’t felt in months.

Is this guy actually a
real
pimp?
I thought, studying him a little closer. He had a really nice-looking afro, his skin a warm mocha color, and his clothes were so authentic I was starting to wonder if his costume was one of those super-expensive rentals from the theater district store a couple of blocks down.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, gesturing toward my almost-empty beer mug. “Not that stuff, a
real
drink.”

“Sure, why not,” I said, finally giving up on my makeup. “Do you work here or something?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Well, that costume is pretty expensive-looking. I mean, I haven’t seen 70’s clothes look that real since the last time I watched a rerun of
That ‘70s Show
.”

“Watched
what
?” he asked, turning his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow.

“You know, that show with Topher Grace and Ashton Kutcher, the kids always in the basement hanging out, set in the 70s?”

“I, uh, must have missed that one.”

“How could you miss it? It was on for almost 10 years.”

What’s up with this guy? Has he been hiding under a rock?

“I don’t really catch a lot of shows on TV.”

“Oh.”

The waitress finally came over, dressed in a bumblebee costume, complete with bouncy little flowers on a headband. She cleared my orange beer mug away, looked pityingly at my obviously-terrible makeup and asked, “You want me to close out your tab?”

“No, I think I’ll have a—”

I looked at him; he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at me.

“Okay, then, I’ll take a margarita on the rocks, with salt, easy on the ice.”

“Add it to your tab?”

“Actually, I think someone else is paying for it.” I gestured toward the drop-dead gorgeous guy sitting across from me, but she didn’t even look at him.

“Um, sure, okay, whatever.” She left without a second glance, switching her butt as she walked so the foam ‘stinger’ hooked to her black tights would wiggle.
Sexy bumblebee costumes for toddlers; it’s all the rage!
I thought.

“So, tell me what’s happenin’. What’s good?” he asked, leaning toward me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you told me your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s an asshole. Tell me why?”

“He cheated on me.”

“That ain’t cool.”

“Ha. That’s an understatement.”

“A lot?”

“What?”

“Did he cheat on you a lot? Or just once or twice?”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at me for a few seconds, genuinely confused. “Yeah. Dead serious. Why? Do people tease you about this or something?”

“No, no, it just seems strange for you to ask ‘once or twice’ like that’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Great, I’m already pushing this guy away and it hasn’t even been five minutes.
I was pretty famous for annoying people in the first ten minutes of meeting. In fact, I had a bit of a ‘reputation’ for that in my circle of friends. Our circle of friends. Well,
his
circle of friends. Whatever.

“Sorry, I get a little touchy about the subject of cheating, now that it’s the main focus of my pathetic life.”

“You don’t need to apologize,
he
should be the one apologizing.”

“I guess so.”

The waitress came bouncing over with my margarita, in a humongous glass.

“Here you go!” she chirped, “Let me know if you need anything else!”

I looked over at him, eyebrows raised,
Want anything?

He shook his head, hands up,
Nah, nothing for me.

“Nope, we’re good.”

She looked at me quizzically, creased her eyebrows, frowned a little, then turned and walked away.

“What’s
her
problem?” I asked, using the little umbrella in my drink to stir the tequila into the sweet and sour mix, for easier gulping.

“Maybe she’s not used to seeing people who talk to ghosts.”

I stopped stirring.

“
What
did you just say?” I asked.

“Ghosts. Maybe she isn’t used to seeing people talk to ghosts on Halloween, at a fancy club in the middle of K Street.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. No, I’m
positive
my mouth was hanging open.

You gotta be kidding me,
I thought,
not again.

“Are you telling me you’re a
ghost
?” I dropped the stupid umbrella back in the drink, planted my hands on the table, readying myself for a physical battle. With who, I’m not sure, because if this guy was a ghost, who was I trying to fight?

“See? Now
you’re
hip to the groove, baby.”

A ghost. Again. Only, this time, I was grown, about to be divorced, and wearing a stupid costume in the middle of a nightclub in D.C.

“Why are you here? Why
me
?”

“Well, first of all, I died, not too far from here. And, second of all, why
not
you?”

“How did you die?”

“Long story, pretty lady. The important thing is: now I have someone to talk to.
You
.”

“No, no, no. I talked to ghosts before, and it always turns out bad for me. Either someone doesn’t believe me, or the ghost is all belligerent, or
something
. I’m done with it. For
good
.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Let’s just see what happens. Maybe it’ll be different
this
time around.” He leaned even closer, staring right into me with his big, golden-sparkly, shining eyes.
Oh, my god, I’m getting turned on by a pimp-ghost.

“Are you really a pimp?”

He laughed out loud, a rumbling, warm sound from deep inside his chest. “Well, I
was
a ladies’ man back in my day. I s’pose you could call it that.”

“I thought so. Only a pimp would act that way with a total stranger. Especially me.”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short, foxy mama. Any man would be a
fool
to just let you sit here by your lonely self, staring at that god-awful orange drink.”

“Really? That’s funny, cuz I’ve been sitting here doing just that for about two hours, now. And no ‘man’ came over to talk to me.”

“That’s a real shame,” he said, shaking his head like it was the biggest tragedy since the fall of Rome. “No beautiful woman should be sittin’ by herself, on a night like tonight. Men these days forgot the
art
of gettin’ a brick house
like you back to the crib.”

“A
what
?”

“Brick house. To the crib. Which thing don’t you get?”

I laughed, loud and hard, for a few minutes. He watched me, curious. After some hiccups and hitching my breath a time or three, I finally calmed down, dabbing at the corner of my eyes with another napkin.