The Matchmaker's Medium Read Free Page B

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