Ooh! I liked Doug336! He was cute! And how nice for Dr. Stuck-Up to see that a man liked me! So there! “Hello, Dr. McFarland,” I said.
“Hello, Miss Grey,” he said, not taking his eyes off the specials board.
“Can I call you Ian?” I asked, just to be a pain.
He cut his eyes to me, then looked back at the menu. “Of course.”
“Have a wonderful day, Ian,” I said, turning away to my date. That’s right, Ian. I have a date. And he’s cuter than you.
“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Doug336 said as we sat down.
I smiled. “Thank you, Doug.” He was quite attractive, with longish dark hair and hazel eyes. Nice build, jeans, T-shirt, a woven bracelet made of some shiny fiber.
I hadn’t been on a first date in a long, long time. In fact, I’d never been on a date with someone I didn’t know pretty well. “So,” I said, grinning so my dimple showed, something that always worked well for me. “Where shall we start? I have to admit, you’re my first Internet date ever.”
“An Internet virgin,” Doug murmured. “Nice.” I blinked. “How about a basic exchange of information?” he suggested.
“Sure,” I agreed, suddenly hesitant. “Well, I work at an ad agency. Um, I have an older sister and a younger brother. Lived in Vermont most of my life, though I went to college in Pennsylvania and lived in Boston for a few years. Never married, no kids, two nieces.”
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
“No, I live with my grandfather, actually. He’s um …” I paused, not wanting to share Noah’s issues with a stranger. “We’re very close.”
“I have a housemate, too,” Doug answered. “She’s kind of a shrew, but it’s her house, so what can you do?”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”
“Well, it’s my mother, so I’m stuck.”
Strike one. “Why don’t you move?” I asked.
“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.
Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama … the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.
“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.
“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.
“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”
“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”
“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.
“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”
“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”
My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.
I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”
“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him … after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.
“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.
“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.
“Wow,” I managed. Ian McFarland shot me a glance, and I tried to smile, gave him a feeble wave.
“You okay?” Doug asked.
“Oh, sure,” I said, finally getting my breath back. “So. Human hair. Wow.”
“I know,” Doug said proudly. “No one’s really doing that these days, so I’ve cornered the market.”
“There’s really a market for human hair macramé?” I asked. “Um, I mean … Human hair. Wow.”
Steee-rike three! I suppressed the urge to do that cool little punching thing the home plate umpires do, but come on! Doug336 of the human hair craft corner was not the kind of guy to replace Mark.
Appetite slain, I tried to tune out Doug as he waxed rhapsodic about the strength and versatility of different types of hair … red, brunette, the rare natural blond. Glancing surreptitiously to my left, I saw that Ian was engrossed in an article. Nice way to spend a lunch, reading and eating, two of my favorite pastimes. And he’d ordered the pastrami, lucky bastard. It looked fantastic.
Across from me, Doug laughed at something he said, and I snapped to.
“So …” I paused, and curiosity got the better of me. “Where do you get the hair? From a salon or something?”
“No, not a salon. I have my sources,” he said. His eyes rose to my head. “You have very pretty hair, by the way.” I swallowed. “Want to go back to my place?”
“So you can scalp me?” Here I’d thought Louis was creepy! I couldn’t wait to call Annie.
“No.” He laughed. “So we can fool around. My mom’s a heavy sleeper.”
“Jeesh!” I blurted. “I’m sorry, Doug. This isn’t going to work. I’m sure you’re very … uh … creative and, um … fun, but I don’t think there’s a … a future here.”
“Fine!
