Free Dating Without Novocaine by Lisa Cach Page A

silver studs dotting their faces; wanna-be Maoris, their cheeks and noses swirled with green tattoos. I didn’t know how any of them could hope to get a job, except maybe at faux-hip vintage clothing stores where funny-smelling garments were passed off as stylish and daring. Then again, jobs probably weren’t their main concern just now.
    The problem was, they reminded me too much of the college kids in Eugene. I’d finally reached the age where instead of such personal expression in dress seeming liberating, and possessed of some magic symbolism, it just seemed silly. And limiting. No one takes seriously a woman with a stud sticking out of her lower lip like a big steel pimple.
    I took another sip of chai, watching the customers arrive and leave. I was ten minutes early for my meeting with Wade the wildlife biologist, and so had plenty of time to fret over which unsuitable guy might or might not be him.
    He’d said he’d be wearing a tan coat, which I assumed was the basic color of a biologist trying to blend in with the background. He hadn’t posted a photo with his ad, and hadn’t had access to a scanner to e-mail one, so the only picture I had of him was in my head. I was imagining a broad jaw, broad shoulders, and creases at the corner of the eyes from squinting against the sun out in the wilds. And of course, a deep, slow voice like a narrator on a nature program.
    I crossed my fingers for a quick second. Please let him have the voice. I’d heard it said that while a woman’s most sexual feature was her hair, a man’s was his voice. I loved it when you could feel the vibrationsof a man’s voice rumbling in your own chest: it was like he was becoming intimately acquainted just by speaking.
    A man in khakis and a blue oxford shirt came in, brown hair, beige windbreaker over his arm. He got in line to place his order, eyes casually scanning the room, skimming over me, then his phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket.
    I watched him a few moments longer, but he showed no sign of looking for me, and a cell phone definitely did not fit my picture of Mr. Wildlife.
    I wondered if, when Mr. Wildlife did show up, I would fit his expectations, in turn.
    My own ad had run thus:
    One in a million
    I’m a confident, self-employed mistress of the seam who is looking for that one-in-a-million match. 29 yrs old, HWP, blond, blue-gray, and pretty without pretension. I love creating with my hands, spending time with friends, and exploring odd corners of the city and the countryside. My match would be 29-39 years old, no children (yet), happy in his chosen profession, with a spirit of adventure and yet preferring to walk on the tamer side of life—no drugs, heavy drinking, etc. etc., you know what I mean.
    Originally I’d put “spirit of adventure” without any qualifiers, but Louise had warned that such a phrase might invite men with an interest in S&M.
    I’d done a little playing with bondage in the past—and had considered making my own Velcro wrist straps—but I certainly wouldn’t want to date someone who was so into it that they searched for a woman based on such criteria. I tended to view with suspicion ads that asked for feminine women. What did a guy mean by “feminine”? Submissive? Eager to be told what to do? Weak?
    I was getting paranoid. Most of them probably just meant she kept herself groomed and didn’t engage in belching contests.
    â€œHannah?”
    I turned, and felt my face flush, my heart suddenly thudding in my chest. “Wade?”
    â€œI was hoping it might be you,” he said, and held out his hand.
    I slid down from my stool, switched my chai to my other hand, and shook, nerves overwhelming me and making my muscles quiver.
    He wasn’t what I had expected. He was just under six feet, his posture stooped, his frame narrow and with no hint of brawn. There was a faint resemblance to Anthony Hopkins in his