Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

“That’s refreshing.”

“Do you have it? The—what did you call it?—Spirit Marker.”

“Spirit Mark. And yes, I have it.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it.”

“Well, it’s been more of a curse than a blessing for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kind of a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

“How long is long?”

“Um, it’s been with me my whole life, as far back as I can remember. More than 30 years’ worth, anyway.”

“You don’t look old enough to say that.”

I blushed. Which I never do. “I’m old enough.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

We looked at each other for a moment too long.

“Hey, boss?”

Esteban’s head twitched, like someone who abruptly woke from a daydream.

“What?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but we need some help on the Ford out here. The pickup?”

“Sure, sure, okay, I’ll be right there.” He waved the guy out of the room, looking distracted.

“I can just come back another time, if you’re busy.”

“I have a better idea: Go to dinner with me.”

I actually felt my mouth drop open.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, I just thought maybe we could talk about that mark thing—“

“Sure, I’d love to.”

He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny office. “Great! What time should I pick you up? And where do you live?”

“I guess, maybe, seven-ish? Or eight, if that’s too early.”

“No, seven-ish is perfect. Not seven, because that’s too early. But seven- ish is exactly the time I had in mind when I asked.”

Yep. A fellow smartass. This should be amusing, if nothing else.

“Okay. Well, let me give you my address.”

“Just text it to me. Here, give me your cell phone,” he said, reaching for it. I handed it over, a little too willingly, and it slipped out of my hand.

“Whoops,” he said, expertly saving it from certain destruction on the floor.

“You have good hands,” I said, then froze. Wow, that was a Freudian slip if there ever was one, I thought, terrified he might catch it.

“That’s what they tell me,” he answered, winking at me. Yep, he caught it. Damn.

“Okay, so, seven-ish o’clock? I’ll text you the address.”

“Sounds great.” He walked me to the door and waved as I drove away.

“I guess it went better than you thought it would,” Jamal said from the back seat.

“No thanks to you ,” I snapped.

“Hey! Don’t blame that mess on me !” he said, “If I was running the show, it would’ve gone a lot smoother than that, foxy lady.”

“Well, I got a date out of it.”

“I know. And in the words of Jimmie Walker, that’s dy-no-MITE! ”

“Careful, Jamal, you’re dating yourself.”

“Someone needs to. Can’t seem to find any foxy ladies to boogie down with me on this side of things.”

“I meant—just, never mind. I need a new dress. Wanna go shopping?”

“Like you need to ask.”

“Come on in!” I yelled down the stairs.

“You sure?” Esteban yelled back.

“Yes! I’m almost ready, just finishing my hair!”

“Okay!” I heard the screen door open and slam closed. I made the ten-thousandth mental note to myself to get the spring fixed on that stupid door, so it wouldn’t slam anymore.

“Why so much makeup?” Jamal asked, looking at me in the mirror. It was creepy, the way I could see him, but the mirror didn’t reflect him. Like something out of an old B-movie vampire flick from the late 50s.

“Because I don’t want him to see my bad skin,” I said, scowling at him.

“I can dig it. No need to get all those wrinkles pushed together.”

I swung my hand to smack his arm, and got nothing but air.

“You’re lucky I can’t hit you. Pig.”

He laughed at my insult, and proceeded to look me up and down, like one of his ‘girls’ back in the day.

“Do I pass inspection, sergeant?”

He snapped to attention, saluted me, and said, “Sir, no sir!”

“That’s ma’am to you, private.” I stuck my tongue out at him, for good measure.

“You look like a million dollars, baby.” He winked and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

He stuck his head back in, “To check out your new man. Where else would I be going?”

“Hey! You leave him alone. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah, okay, white girl. Let me handle The Man, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yo’self into. Can you dig it?” He wiggled his butt, shuffled his feet, and did a little move with his hands.

“Just go. I’ll be down in a few.”

He disappeared through the wall, even though the open doorway was six inches to the left.

“Show off,” I whispered.

Jealous , he answered in my head.

I smiled, accidentally burning myself in the process. “Ouch!” I stuck my burned finger in my mouth, trying to ease the sting.

“Would you like a wine list, sir?”

“Not me. Do you want any wine?” Esteban asked.

“No, thanks. It just makes me dizzy and sleepy.”

“Very well,” the waiter said, sliding the wine list back into his apron-pocket. “Would you like any appetizers?”

“Uh, maybe you could just let us look at the menu,” I said, looking at Esteban for backup.

“Yeah, we need a few more minutes to decide,” he said, winking at me. The waiter looked at us like we were naked wedding crashers and stormed off in a huff.

“Moody much?” I asked, pointing a finger at the waiter.

“I already know what I want, but I think it’s kind of fun screwing around with the waiters,” he said, leaning toward me like we had a really big secret.

“Whatever makes you happy,” I teased.

“So, now that we’re alone—well, sort of alone—can you tell me about your mark?”

“Oh, that?” I waved my hand like it was the silliest thing I ever heard. “You don’t wanna hear about that, it’s boring.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

“For starters, when did you know you had it? Was it, like, a special birthmark or something?”

“Uh, no. There was no physical mark. Actually, the first time I knew I had it was the first time I saw a ghost.”

“Well, that’s one way to get going. How old were you? Fifteen, sixteen?”

“Ha! I wish. Try five.”

“Five? You were only five years old the first time you saw a ghost?”

“Yep.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I thought you said your culture didn’t see it as crazy.”

“Well, being able to speak to the spirits isn’t crazy, but having to do such an adult thing at the age of five? That’s a little crazy.”

I scanned the menu one more time, running my finger down the laminated page. “Okay, I know what I want. Where’s that annoying waiter?” Of course, because I wanted to find him, the waiter was nowhere to be found.

“You know how it goes, they disappear right when you want them around, then get right in your face when you don’t. Like dogs.”

“I guess so. I don’t have any dogs. Do you have any dogs?”

“Yep—a Rottweiler and a beagle/dachshund mix. Both females.”

“That’s a strange combination.”

“My friend gave me the Rotty before he deployed to Afghanistan. My kids picked the little one.”

Kids?

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What? Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just didn’t realize you had any—dogs.”