Free Why I Love Singlehood: by Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell Page A

noticed him, it had been one of those days where the espresso machine went on the fritz, the gourmet beans were sold out, orders got mixed up, and the line never shortened.
    “What can I get you?” I’d asked as soon as he’d stepped to the counter.
    “Hi,” he said. “How are you?”
    “Good. You?”
    “Liar,” he grinned.
    “Excuse me?”
    “How are you?” he repeated.
    I blinked. “Tired,” I said with a weak laugh.
    He gave me a look that said that’s more like it before saying, “I can imagine.” He then ordered a plain café au lait and a maple nut muffin at my recommendation. As I handed him his muffin—warmed just because I thought he’d like it that way—and finally asked him how he was, he smiled and said simply, “Better.”
    I’m pretty sure he was the one who slipped a five into the tip jar on the counter that day, although he never copped to it. He’d been a Regular ever since. Kenny was one of those people to whom you can only ever tell the truth, and I found myself always glad to see him; somehow, just knowing that I could tell him I felt like crap made me feel inherently less crappy. There were still days when he’d quirk an eyebrow if I said I was “great, thanks” with a little too much fervor, or chuckle to himself if I emerged from the kitchen covered in flour and all the markings of a battle lost against the mixer and still managed to say I was “fine.”

     
    “I’m sorry,” he said in the present moment. “I didn’t mean to listen in, but she is.”
    I wasn’t offended. In fact, in that moment I felt the impulse to hug Kenny and not let go. Something about this scared me, though, and I tried to mentally shake it off. Still, I could not escape from the truth in his eyes.
    “I know,” I said. “And she knows I know.”
    With that, I went back behind the counter and into the kitchen.

Possibilities
     
    “THE TOPIC OF the Day is speed dating,” I announced to the café, filled mostly with Originals and Regulars, on an uncharacteristically mild Monday afternoon.
    The idea had consumed me ever since I gave up on Lovematch.com. I’d always wanted to try speed dating; I likened it to a game of Twister or Musical Chairs, only the winner winds up picking out china patterns and reserving an expensive catering hall two years down the road.
    “What about it?” asked Jan.
    “Anyone ever done it?” I asked.
    “I did!” said Tracy.
    “Me too,” added Jan.
    “Really?” Dean asked. “When?”
    “Years ago, during my Sex and the City –wannabe days,” she replied to both Dean and us.
    “What’d you think?” I asked.
    “It’s more fun if you have a couple of cosmopolitans in you,” said Jan.
    “I did it once.”
    Heads turned to meet the tall, tan, sun-bleached blond, twentysomething stranger at the counter dressed in Dockers shorts and a polo shirt from which this admission came. I guessed him to be a windsurfer in town for the summer.
    “And?” I asked, handing him a strawberry smoothie in exchange for a twenty-dollar bill.
    “It was fun, but I didn’t like the women I met,” he said, accepting his change and stuffing it into his front pocket.
    “What kind of women?” Norman asked, sounding especially curious.
    “Superficial,” the guy said. “Shallow. Kept asking me how much money I made or what I did for a living, but not in a small-talk kind of way. Just to mess with ’em I started telling ’em I was a garbage man.”
    A couple of the Originals laughed.
    “Then I followed it up with ‘I’m CEO of my own garbage company. Gives new meaning to being a garbage man.’”
    More laughs.
    “They didn’t know what to do with that,” he said.
    “Where did you do it?” asked Norman.
    “A few years ago, when I lived in Boston. Your friend was right when she said it’s more fun if you put a few drinks away beforehand.”
    Funny, I didn’t detect the New England accent until he mentioned Boston. He held up his smoothie as if to toast all of us,