does he mean by ‘petite’?” Louise asked. “Does he mean short, or skinny?”
I scrolled back up to the stats. Squirrel Boy was five-eight, one hundred and thirty-five pounds. “I’m guessing both. I don’t know many guys who want their date to be bigger than they are.”
“Skinny guys sometimes like plump women,” Scott said. “It’s no good having your bones rubbing against hers.”
I frowned at him over my shoulder.
“Don’t look at me like that. Most guys I know would rather have a girl with a little extra on her, than too little. You need something to hold on to.”
Cassie nudged me from the other side. “I told you so. You can’t be a good belly dancer without any belly. It looks wrong. Women are supposed to be soft.”
“Mmm.” I was not convinced. I wanted to be convinced, I would dearly love to believe those extra ten pounds were beautiful, but I would have to isolate myself from the rest of the U.S. to believe it.
I had a disturbing inkling that even if ten pounds were to fall off overnight, I would still think ten more needed to go. And then there were the two acne scars on my cheek I’d want lasered off, and the chin tuck, and the electrolysis for those nasty hairs around my navel and—horror upon horrors—my nipples. There was no end to the improvements to be made.
“This one’s boring,” Louise said. “Let’s look at someone else.”
The next photo was of a buff-looking guy leaning against a polished pickup, the sun glaring off the fenders and his sunglasses. His jeans were tight enough that the bulge of his penis was visible.
“Full of himself. Next,” Louise said, not even giving me time to scroll down to read what the guy had to say.
A balding guy, going to fat, crouching down next to a Labrador. “Maybe,” Louise said.
Scott made a noise of disbelief. “Him?”
“It’s the dog,” Louise explained. “Makes him look caring.”
“Remind me to get a pet. A cat would be good. They’re independent, not much trouble.”
“Don’t get a cat,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Guys with cats are weird.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Why?”
“They just are. They start talking about ‘kitty did this’ and ‘kitty did that’, and it’s just wrong. Besides, your apartment will smell like dirty litter, and that’s nothing to bring a girl home to.”
“She’s right, there,” Louise agreed. “The way you keep house, you’re better off with… Huh, I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t eventually smell.”
“We’re going to be here all day if you two keep looking through ads. Come on, let’s get going.”
“Ooo, you’re such a man,” I said. “So task-oriented.”
“That’s me.”
Nevertheless, I could see his point, and over Cassie’s and Louise’s protests I clicked through to the ad-writing screen. “Who first?”
“I’ll go,” Cassie said. “I’ve got to get ready for work in a bit.”
I slid out of the desk chair and Cassie took my place. I went and sat at the other end of the futon from Scott, snatching another bunch of grapes on my way.
“There’s a problem with your one-in-a-million mate theory, at least as it applies to Portland,” Louise said, sitting in our battered old rocking recliner, rescued from a neighbor’s yard sale.
“What’s that?”
“Proximity. There may be two million people in the greater Portland area, but that covers a lot of space. Studies have shown that we tend to get involved with, and marry, those who live closest. Take two dating couples, one who lives twenty miles apart, and the other who lives five miles apart, and the five-milers are more likely to wed.”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked.
“I’ve been reading up on it.”
“Makes sense,” Scott said, working on the brownies now, one leg crossed over the other in that knees-wide position used only by men. “It’s a lot less bother to pick a girl up five minutes away, than half an hour.”
“You’re so romantic,” I said. “Sounds like you’d walk through fire for your true love.”
He shrugged, brownie in hand. “It’s the truth. Men are lazy slobs. You should know that by now.”
“So the point is,” Louise said, “if it’s only the closest people we can fall for, then we aren’t really searching all of the greater Portland area, which means less of a pool.”
I chewed my lip, considering. “No, I don’t think that’s a problem. The idea was not that there would be one million single guys our age who wanted to get married: it was that there were one million males. We’re already draining away most of the pool just by selecting for age and marital status. So we drain out a few more by location. No problem. Although I admit, it sounds like the pool is turning into one of those shallow mud baths the zebras wallow in during the dry season.”
Cassie looked over her shoulder. “Welcome to the dating world.”
The Serengeti image was strangely appropriate, and put a bit of a damper on my enthusiasm for the project. I’d briefly managed to see Portland as a vast uncharted sea of men, but now I was back to the mud wallow.
“What else have you been discovering?” I asked Louise, in hopes of something cheering. She had a mini psychology library in her apartment, and between that and working with fifty-odd counselors and social workers, she usually had good access to interesting information. She was enough of a cynic about life and love that she was constantly looking for a scientific explanation for personal things that the rest of us took for granted.
“Along with the proximity, is familiarity. It’s not that we know what we like—we like what we know. So the more time you spend with someone, the better you like them.”
“Doesn’t that work the opposite way?” Scott asked.
I made a face at him. He grinned.
“Same thing happens with music, or a piece of art,” Louise explained. “Or fashion. You ever notice how when something new comes out, you swear you will never wear it, and then six months later it’s in your closet.”
“Unfortunately,” I agreed.
“Then there’s similarity,” Louise went on. “Age, race, ethnic background, educational level, social status, family background, religion.”
“I can see that. Less to argue about,” I said. “Less to get adjusted to. And if you got involved with the person because they lived close
