Page 113 of Matchmaking On The Menu

And now anyone can read it, anyone can have an opinion, and I am absolutely not prepared for that.

My pulse picks up as I get closer, which feels unnecessary given that I’m not being chased. My breathing goes slightly off rhythm, like I’ve forgotten how lungs work under pressure.

The community board comes into view.

It’s packed. Flyers layered over each other in a chaotic collage of lost pets, yard sales, babysitting services, and at least one aggressively cheerful bake sale that seems to have its life together in a way I do not. Most of these will be ignored.

Okay. This is actually comforting.

Because it suggests a very real possibility that I can put this up—technically, be brave—and still remain completely unnoticed. It’s the ideal compromise. I shift my weight, scanning the board like I’m looking for the perfect level of invisibility. Somewhere that says I tried but not please read this and perceive me.

Because once it’s up there, that’s it. No more editing. No hovering nearby to explain what I meant. No quietly removing it when the panic sets in. I stare at the board longer than necessary, caught between two fears I can’t quite rank. Am I afraid of being seen? Or am I afraid that no one will notice at all? I’m honestly not sure which is worse.

All right, Dannica. Once you’re done here and at the diner, you can reward yourself with a bottle of tequila. Oh, right. No you can’t, because you have a date tonight.

My stomach signs up for the summer Olympics—gymnastics, specifically—and I reach for a pin.

“Fucking damn it.” It slides straight out of my trembling fingers. I bend to pick it up and drop it again. This happens three times before I finally get the little bugger pinched between my fingers and stab it into the paper.

I slip behind the counter at the diner like nothing monumental has just occurred in the last ten minutes. Like I have not publicly exposed my inner thoughts to the entire town via corkboard. Completely normal. Completely fine. Thriving, actually.

I look down at the remaining copies in my hand.

Right. Because apparently I haven’t suffered enough.

My gaze drifts to the booths. Each table is neatly set, menus stacked innocently at the edge, completely unaware of what’s about to happen to them.

This is a terrible idea. This is also, unfortunately, a very good idea.

“As if it’s part of the special,” I mutter under my breath, because framing it that way makes it sound intentional. Professional. Like I’m not about to quietly distribute my personal thoughts across every table in the diner.

I grab the first menu and slide a copy inside, tucking it neatly between the pages like it belongs there, as if customers regularly expect a side of emotional introspection with their lunch.

I close the menu and set it back down. There. Done. No one saw that.

I pick up the next one. And the next. And the next.

By the third table, my movements have become suspiciously efficient, like I’m trying to outrun my own decision-making.

In, tuck, close, move on. Do not think.

Thinking is the enemy.

By the fifth, I’m fully committed. By the seventh, I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this exact moment, because now it’s not just one copy. Now it’s all of them.

Every booth, every table, every unsuspecting customer who just wanted breakfast and is now going to accidentally read my inner monologue while deciding between eggs and pancakes.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I pause at the last table, holding the final menu open a second longer than necessary.

Breathe, Dannica. This is completely fine.

I slide the pages in and shut it with a soft thud that feels far too final. There’s no undoing this without committing a series of highly suspicious menu thefts.

I stand and look out over the diner like I’ve just set a trap and am waiting to see who walks into it. Or more accurately, who sits down and casually flips to page three and gets an unexpected deep dive into my psyche.

I press my lips together and decide I’ll stand by this decision.