Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

Finally, I found my voice, “Neither.”

Motioning to the chairs, he asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

I snorted in disgust, “Be my guest. No one else will.”

He took a few minutes to sit, readjusting his shiny suit coat, taking off his hat and carefully placing it on the table. I used that time to grab a few cocktail napkins and wipe my face off. Sure, I was on the short road to divorce now, but I didn’t have to look like a total loser-mess in the process.

“So, if no one left you here, and you’re not waiting for anyone, why are you sitting alone?

I shrugged, decided now would be the perfect time to get totally blotto, and starting guzzling my orange beer.

“Hey, hey, slow down, there,” he said, reaching across the table and gently pulling the huge beer mug out of my hand.

“Sorry,” I said, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Uh-oh,” he said, pointing to the stack of napkins. “You got a little bit of something right about—here.” He pointed at his own face, making a big circle around his mouth area.

Oh, god, I forgot about my makeup! I thought, about five seconds too late. I had decided this year I should dress like a witch, so there was a bunch of green makeup all over my face, and black lipstick on my mouth. By my own calculations, that meant right now I probably looked like a toad on a quick trip through the blender.

Nice. I thought. How can this night get any worse?

“Ha. Thanks. I forgot about the makeup.” Grabbing a napkin, I unzipped my purse and frantically searched for my compact. “Stupid purse. Always filled with a bunch of junk I don’t even use, which means I can never find the two things I actually do need when I want to.”

“That’s what the ladies do , sweet thing,” he said, leaning towards me. He smelled incredible , like some crazy mix of incense and coconut.

No wonder he’s wearing a pimp costume, I thought, he’s a perfect shoo-in.

“I guess,” I answered. I was always saying lame things in front of guys like him.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, girl.”

I found my compact, opened it and nearly dropped it on the floor when I saw myself. Green and black makeup were smeared all around my mouth, and there were tear-tracks running down the middle of my cheeks.

Perfectly matches the way I feel on the inside, I thought, trying to minimize the damage by using the napkin, but failing miserably.

“Going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. My husband’s an asshole—sorry, almost-ex-husband—and I’m alone on Halloween night dressed in a witch costume with makeup smeared all over my face, guzzling orange beer. That’s what’s ‘going on’.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head, still looking right into my eyes. Even though I knew I looked terrible, I was starting to feel a warm sensation down below that I hadn’t felt in months.

Is this guy actually a real pimp? I thought, studying him a little closer. He had a really nice-looking afro, his skin a warm mocha color, and his clothes were so authentic I was starting to wonder if his costume was one of those super-expensive rentals from the theater district store a couple of blocks down.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, gesturing toward my almost-empty beer mug. “Not that stuff, a real drink.”

“Sure, why not,” I said, finally giving up on my makeup. “Do you work here or something?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Well, that costume is pretty expensive-looking. I mean, I haven’t seen 70’s clothes look that real since the last time I watched a rerun of That ‘70s Show .”

“Watched what ?” he asked, turning his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow.

“You know, that show with Topher Grace and Ashton Kutcher, the kids always in the basement hanging out, set in the 70s?”

“I, uh, must have missed that one.”

“How could you miss it? It was on for almost 10 years.”

What’s up with this guy? Has he been hiding under a rock?

“I don’t really catch a lot of shows on TV.”

“Oh.”

The waitress finally came over, dressed in a bumblebee costume, complete with bouncy little flowers on a headband. She cleared my orange beer mug away, looked pityingly at my obviously-terrible makeup and asked, “You want me to close out your tab?”

“No, I think I’ll have a—”

I looked at him; he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at me.

“Okay, then, I’ll take a margarita on the rocks, with salt, easy on the ice.”

“Add it to your tab?”

“Actually, I think someone else is paying for it.” I gestured toward the drop-dead gorgeous guy sitting across from me, but she didn’t even look at him.

“Um, sure, okay, whatever.” She left without a second glance, switching her butt as she walked so the foam ‘stinger’ hooked to her black tights would wiggle. Sexy bumblebee costumes for toddlers; it’s all the rage! I thought.

“So, tell me what’s happenin’. What’s good?” he asked, leaning toward me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you told me your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s an asshole. Tell me why?”

“He cheated on me.”

“That ain’t cool.”

“Ha. That’s an understatement.”

“A lot?”

“What?”

“Did he cheat on you a lot? Or just once or twice?”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at me for a few seconds, genuinely confused. “Yeah. Dead serious. Why? Do people tease you about this or something?”

“No, no, it just seems strange for you to ask ‘once or twice’ like that’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Great, I’m already pushing this guy away and it hasn’t even been five minutes. I was pretty famous for annoying people in the first ten minutes of meeting. In fact, I had a bit of a ‘reputation’ for that in my circle of friends. Our circle of friends. Well, his circle of friends. Whatever.

“Sorry, I get a little touchy about the subject of cheating, now that it’s the main focus of my pathetic life.”

“You don’t need to apologize, he should be the one apologizing.”

“I guess so.”

The waitress came bouncing over with my margarita, in a humongous glass.

“Here you go!” she chirped, “Let me know if you need anything else!”

I looked over at him, eyebrows raised, Want anything?

He shook his head, hands up, Nah, nothing for me.

“Nope, we’re good.”

She looked at me quizzically, creased her eyebrows, frowned a little, then turned and walked away.

“What’s her problem?” I asked, using the little umbrella in my drink to stir the tequila into the sweet and sour mix, for easier gulping.

“Maybe she’s not used to seeing people who talk to ghosts.”

I stopped stirring.

“ What did you just say?” I asked.

“Ghosts. Maybe she isn’t used to seeing people talk to ghosts on Halloween, at a fancy club in the middle of K Street.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. No, I’m positive my mouth was hanging open.

You gotta be kidding me, I thought, not again.

“Are you telling me you’re a ghost ?” I dropped the stupid umbrella back in the drink, planted my hands on the table, readying myself for a physical battle. With who, I’m not sure, because if this guy was a ghost, who was I trying to fight?

“See? Now you’re hip to the groove, baby.”

A ghost. Again. Only, this time, I was grown, about to be divorced, and wearing a stupid costume in the middle of a nightclub in D.C.