Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle Page B

married or already have a girlfriend.”
    A pained sigh escaped me.
    My e-date leaned forward. “Hey, look…” He pulled out his business card, flipped it, and wrote something down. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be on one of these two sites instead. They’re total duds as far as I’m concerned—people who want, you know, ‘meaningful relationships,’ and talk about things like ‘favorite hobbies.’ A lot tamer than SinglesNYC.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
    We finished our meal and contemplated the desert selection. Both of us ordered the flan, then I asked the waitress for a cappuccino.
    “I’ll have one, too,” said Brooks.
    I was just about to conclude the guy was okay when he opened his mouth one more time and said the one thing that absolutely put an end to even the remotest possibility of a relationship with me—
    “Just make sure mine’s a decaf.”

S IX
    A LMOST time.
    The air was crisp tonight, polluted with the occasional acrid fumes from the historic district’s wood-burning fireplaces, but there was little wind off the nearby river, and the Genius found tonight’s mission almost tolerable.
    For one thing, the sorry parade of single men and women brought the Genius a mild degree of amusement.
    Saturday night in the Village was always loud and crowded, but each Single seemed to file down this dark street in a particularly pathetic way. There was something pensive and a little desperate about them as they negotiated the clutching couples and raucous revelers. Hands in pockets, eyes cast down.
    Standing in the shadowy recesses of an alley across the busy street, the Genius found the perfect vantage from which to watch them file past the faux gas lamp and trudge into the coffeehouse.
    Through the Blend’s tall, brightly lit windows, the Genius studied them as they bumped and squeezed their way around the crowded tables, then adjusted their clothing before climbing up the wrought iron spiral staircase to arrive on the second floor, their false courage now in place—hands out of pockets, eyes lifted up, plastic smiles applied like last-minute lipstick.
    There was a bald guy in his fifties with a slight limp.
    Two women in their thirties, laughing a little too hard.
    An over-dressed fortyish man with enough grease in his hair to qualify as a Mafia don.
    A brunette with tight clothing and too much makeup.
    A geeky twentysomething.
    A geeky thirtysomething.
    Three Goth girls.
    A forty-plus woman with spike-heeled boots and a trendy leather coat meant for someone twenty years younger.
    And they just kept coming…
    This Cappuccino Connection thing certainly brought out the losers. Oh, there were a few somewhat attractive women in the mix, but nothing special.
    The Genius was actually surprised it had come to this for him.
    But SinglesNYC.com really had become a bust.
    The last match had taken place at a nearby restaurant. She’d been too old for his taste, which might not have mattered, but there was no chemistry. Nothing about the woman seemed to turn him on. She’d been a bore.
    As usual, the SinglesNYC profile didn’t match the reality. Everything from her photo to her occupation had seemed better in the on-line profile than it had been in person. A big yawn for him.
    The Genius hadn’t been all that surprised. The only question had been, “What next?”
    Cruising more SinglesNYC profiles was an option. Giving up was an option, too. But then, of course, so was this…
    The Genius emerged from the shadows and crossed the street, heading into the Blend.
    “Ah, well,” murmured the Genius, “at least I’ll get an excellent cappuccino out of the evening.”

     

    “Clare, I have one word for you,” whispered Tucker as he offered me a French café cup of cappuccino from his half-empty cork-bottomed tray.
    Cradling the heat in my cold hands, I sipped at the warm froth, then peered over the cup’s rim, apprehensively taking in the crowd of milling bodies filling up the