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I’d sooner date a three-hundred-pound baldie who’s kind to animals and old ladies than a supermodel-perfect asshole with a giant cock.
It takes me close to an hour to get through most of the messages. It’s when I’m in the home stretch—and firmly convinced I will never, ever use a dating app again—that I see it.
A simple, attachment-free email from a cartoon avatar of a round-faced man with a shy smile.
Intrigued, I click on the message, sent only three days ago.
Hi, Emma, it reads. I’m sure you get this a lot, but I think you’re really cute, and I love the cats in your photo. I myself have two Persians. They’re fat and horribly spoiled, but I love them and I’m convinced that despite scratching up all my furniture, they love me back. Other than spending time with them, my hobbies include discovering quirky coffee shops in Brooklyn, reading (historical fiction, mostly), and rollerblading in the park. Oh, and I work in a bookstore while studying to be a veterinarian. Do you think you’d want to meet up for coffee or dinner one of these days? I know a nice little place in Park Slope. Please let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in.
Thank you,
Mark
My pulse racing in excitement, I read the letter again, then go to his profile. There are two actual pictures of Mark there, each showing a guy who appears to be exactly my type. Though the pictures are blurry, they resemble his cartoon avatar quite a bit. His rounded face looks kind, his crooked smile is both shy and self-deprecating, and in one picture, he’s wearing glasses that give him a pleasantly intellectual vibe. According to the profile, he’s twenty-seven, has brown hair and blue eyes, and lives in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
He’s so perfect I could’ve ordered him off my secret wish list.
Grinning, I reply that I’d love to meet up with him, then jump off the bed and do a happy booty dance. My hair tumbles in frizzy red curls all over my face, and my cats look at me like I’m crazy, but I don’t care.
Kendall can shove her cat-lady labels up her skinny little ass.
I have an actual date.
2
Marcus
“Yes, that’s right,” I say impatiently. “I want her to be neat and well-groomed at all times. She has to have a sense of style; it’s very important. A brunette would be best, but a blonde would work too, as long as her hairstyle is conservative. She can’t look like she just stepped out of Playboy, understand?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Carelli.” The stylish brunette in front of me crosses her long legs and gives me a polite smile. Victoria Longwood-Thierry, matchmaker for the Wall Street’s elite, is exactly what I have in mind for my future wife, except she’s in her fifties and married with three children. “What about hobbies and interests?” she asks in her carefully modulated voice. “What would you like her to be into?”
“Something intellectual,” I say. “I want to be able to talk to her outside the bedroom.”
“Of course.” Victoria makes a note on her notepad. “How about her profession?”
“That doesn’t really matter to me. She can be a lawyer or a doctor or spend all her time doing charity work for orphans in Haiti—it’s all the same as far as I’m concerned. Once we marry, she can either stay home with the kids or continue her career. I’m comfortable with either option.”
“That’s very enlightened of you.” Victoria’s expression is unchanged, but I get a feeling she’s secretly laughing at me. “How do you feel about pets? Do you prefer cats or dogs?”
“Neither. I don’t like having animals indoors.”
Victoria makes another note before asking, “What about her height? Do you have a preference?”
“Tall,” I say immediately. “Or at least above average.” I’m six-foot-three, and short women look like children to me.
“Okay, good.” Victoria jots it down. “How about body type? Athletic or slender, I would assume?”
I nod tersely. “Yes. I’m into fitness, and I want her to be in good shape so she can keep up with me.” Frowning, I glance at my Patek Philippe watch and see that I have only a half hour before the market opens. Turning my attention back to Victoria, I say, “Basically, I want a smart, elegant, stylish woman who takes care of herself.”
“Got it. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”
I’m skeptical, but I keep a poker face as she gets up and politely ushers me out of her office. She promises to contact me within a couple of days, shakes my hand, and heads back in, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume. It’s not too strong—Victoria Longwood-Thierry would never be so tacky as to wear strong perfume—but I still sneeze as I head to the elevator.
I’ll have to add this to the list: the wife candidate can’t wear perfume, period.
