Dating is Murder Read Free Page B

Hollywood?” He picked up a breadstick and began to butter it. The butter was ice-cold and uncooperative. “Nature didn’t intend for you to need bifocals to see the baby you’re breast-feeding. Fortunately for you, God created fertility doctors.” He took a bite of the breadstick, producing an audible crunch. Isaac moved the boom in close, to pick up the sound. The doctor pointed the breadstick’s jagged end at Carlito. “You have it relatively easy. Given a normal rate of motility—”
    “What’s motility?” Carlito asked.
    “How many sperm are swimming. Assuming yours are plentiful, with sufficient forward progression, go easy on the marijuana, keep your underwear loose, and you can do this when you’re as old as Larry King.”
    The thought of Carlito’s swimming sperm made me think not of sex but of tadpoles, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I was cut out for this work. Even though no
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participants would be required to actually procreate, the audience would expect to see us kiss. I prayed that my warm feelings for my fellow contestants would heat up.
    Dr. Exeter finished off the breadstick. “So what was the question? Oh, yes, sex. Go at it like rabbits, and don’t waste any time. Every menstrual cycle counts.”
    “What about freezing her eggs right now?” Fredreeq asked. “In case Prince Charming is running late?”
    The entire room, it seemed, turned to look at her, sitting in the booth behind us.
    “Cut! Hey, Miss Dumb,” Bing yelled. “You are the makeup artist. You do not speak.”
    “Yeah, sorry, forgot,” Fredreeq said.
    “Good question, though,” the doctor said, turning back to the camera. “You can freeze anything, but what survives the thaw? Sperm. Also embryos—fertilized eggs, that’s egg plus sperm—which requires both Prince and Princess Charming. Eggs alone? Not so great. The technology’s improving, but even when it happens, the time for freezing is in your prime. Early twenties, in a perfect world. In your case, uh, Willie, I’m afraid that boat has sailed.”
    “Great, beautiful,” Bing said. “Let’s move in on our dream couple. Dr. Dan, do that whole speech again, so we can get Wollie and Carlito’s reaction to it.”
    My reaction was simple. How many menstrual cycles had I squandered on my former fiancé? Five. Not that I blamed Doc for moving to Taiwan, but the devotion that made him a good father to his child meant he’d never father mine. He couldn’t abandon Ruby to her wacky mother, and by the time he was free to divorce and remarry, my eggs would be in a retirement home.
    “I need a bathroom break before my close-up,” Carlito said.
    This was a chance for the rest of us to take five. Out came cell phones as people took care of whatever business needed taking care of at 10:57 P.M., mostly checking in with significant others. As I had no significant other, I kicked off my shoes and took a walk around the restaurant. The other diners were gone, and the waiters sat at a table near the kitchen, counting tips and eating a meal of their own by candlelight, roast chicken with all the fixings. Their camaraderie was evident.
    Melancholy engulfed me. I wanted to mother a child almost more than I could say. If I won the
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audience vote, one prize would be six months of fertility services at Dr. Exeter’s clinic, either with my fellow winning contestant or with a man of my choice. I was keeping an open mind about the contestants, but the man of my choice was in Taiwan and although he’d come back one day, he wasn’t coming back to me, not for six years. I looked at my watch. How long before another man would look sexy to me, not merely appealing? What was the statute of limitations on true love? Longer than the working life of my ovaries?
    A greeting card began to take shape in my head, featuring hens. It would be a combination birthday and condolence, something along the lines of “Happy 40th, Sorry About Those Eggs.”
    A voice whispered in my