Dating Without Novocaine by Lisa Cach Page A

attractive in daily life did not find him attractive in return. So he’d rather pay for it, and have it fake, than get to know a real woman he could maybe build a life with.”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Hannah. Now you’re comparing me to a guy who sleeps with hookers? All I said was that I’d prefer someone attractive. So would you. So would anyone. Listen to Louise, she’s the one who read the study!”
    â€œI’m putting that in my profile,” Cassie said. “‘Must have no history of dating prostitutes.’ Do you think that will put anyone off?”
    The tension broke, and I relaxed back against the futon. Scott nudged my knee with his foot, and I slapped it lightly away, looking at him from the corner of my eye and not quite able to keep from smiling.
    â€œIf it does,” Louise said, “it’s just as well. Think of the diseases! Bleh!”

Five
Mourning Clothes
    M y mobile phone rang as I slowly cruised the residential street of tract mansions looking for Kristina DeFrang’s house. She was a new client, referred by Joanne of the muffins and too much clothing.
    I pulled to the curb and stopped before answering, having promised myself when purchasing the thing that I would not annoy the rest of humanity by driving and talking at the same time. I’d come near to breaking the promise a hundred times, and who would know? But I didn’t want to be one of those cell phone users. I wanted to be one of the good ones, who when in public huddled in a corner and whispered a brief conversation, then hung up quickly.
    Perhaps that was another criteria to put in the personal ad, besides no history of dating prostitutes: does not use mobile phone while browsing at Barnes & Noble or standing in line at Starbucks. Cassie would qualify that with: prefers independent businesses to chains, and does not know the difference between a Grande and a Tall.
    I, on the other hand, thought Starbucks and Barnes & Noble were both good places to look for guys. Someguys apparently thought the same thing about bookstores: I’d once been followed aisle to aisle by a lummox carrying a copy of Chicken Soup for the Single’s Soul.
    â€œHello, this is Hannah.”
    â€œHannah! Are you on the phone?”
    It took a daughter to translate Mother-speak correctly. “Hi, Mom. I’m on the cell phone, in my car.”
    â€œYou aren’t driving, are you? Should I call back?”
    â€œIt’s okay, I’m parked. What’s up?”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œNearly to Camas, looking for a client’s house.” Camas was across the river, in Washington state, about half an hour from Portland. “She’s supposed to have a big job for me, something about redecorating her second house.”
    â€œDad can’t get the VCR to work.”
    The abrupt change of topic was nothing new, and I tried to not take offense at her apparent lack of interest in my work. And it was only an apparent lack: I knew that she cared how I was and that I was able to make ends meet, but the specifics of that struggle and of my work were beyond her present life.
    Mom and Dad were nearly seventy, having had me late and as a bit of a surprise. Mom was a retired grade school teacher, and Dad had been a carpenter and was now a housing inspector. He talked about retiring, but I doubted he would unless forced to. They lived in the house I had grown up in, in Roseburg, three hours south of Portland. It wasn’t the boonies, but it was pretty close.
    â€œPut him on,” I said.
    There were scuffling sounds, muted voices, then Dad. “I followed your instruction sheet, but it didn’t work, and now I can’t get the regular TV stations, either. I think the remote’s batteries need to be changed.”
    I stifled a sigh. How could a man who could spot the first faint signs of dry rot and tell the exact remaining life span of a roof be stymied by a couple of black