Exposed

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“Last time I checked, they were my messages. Let me see!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Five of my eight messages are just the phrase, “What’s up?” Two of them ask my bra size. The last one I have to reread twice before I can convince myself that this is real life and an actual human being wrote this: “Hey, you are cute like a little mouse. Wanna play a game? And no, it’s not sexual before you think that’s what I’m insinuating you perv.”

“Did you read this one?” I ask Jazz, pointing to the screen. “Do guys in their mid-twenties know how to talk to women at all? Do they really think this is an effective way to get intelligent women to talk to them? I mean, who would fall for something like this?”

“I would!” Jazzy says, cackling as she forms a peace sign with her hand and puts it behind her head. “Look! I’m a mouse!”

“Those are rabbit ears, Jazz.”

“Same difference.” She hands me the bottle of red wine and I take a long swig. “What’s next?”

“Look, this guy’s profile picture is him with a parrot on his shoulder.”

“Now that’s confusing. I don’t know which one is Jeff—the dude or the parrot.”

“Oh, shit. I think I accidentally signed you up for a parrot dating service.”

I read another one. “Can I pleasure you with my ten-inch meat sword?” My mouth hangs open. “This is just plain disgusting. Why are they all so vulgar?”

“Are you kidding? That’s mild. That’s practically a ‘how do you do?’ in this day and age.”

Curious to see the face that belongs to such a twisted mind, I click on his picture to see him better.

“Jazz, this kid looks like he’s twelve! You are too young for that kind of language,” I admonish the computer screen. I go back to my inbox and search the webpage. “How do I delete all these gross ones?”

“Why would you delete that one? He’s ten inches for crying out loud, Mace.”

I give her a pointed look.

“Kidding.” Jasmine puts up her hands. “No, but really, if you delete all the gross ones, there won’t be many left. Just sayin’. There’s always my cli-ent,” she says in a singsong voice like she’s dangling a bone for a starved dog.

“No, no, I’m not done yet,” I insist as another message comes through. It says, “So you like yoga? Which kind do you practice?”

I turn to Jazz, almost a little smug. “See? This guy seems okay. And I’m kind of impressed that he knows that there are different kinds of yoga, to be honest.”

“Open his page,” Jazzy requests.

I click through a couple pictures. “He’s pretty cute,” I admit before going back to scroll through what he filled out. “He’s a dentist—that’s good, I may need a new crown put in, always a plus...”

Jazzy laughs. “Go on.”

“He likes pets. Always good.” A small smile begins to form on my lips, but then my hand stops cold. I see it. Under The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit it says: “I own a sarcophagus. I refer to it as my roommate.”

I scrunch my nose for a second and open a new tab to look up the word sarcophagus. I think I know what it means, but I have to double-check. When the definition loads, a breath escapes me.

“Nope, nope, shut it down,” I say, closing the laptop with a click. Jasmine gives me a toothy grin. “He probably wanted to know what yoga you did because maybe it’s a small coffin and he hasn’t found anyone who can fit in it.” Jasmine mimes stroking an invisible beard. “Or maybe, if he’s a dentist, he fills his coffin roommate with old teeth.”

“Okay, Jazz, I get the picture. I think that’s enough.” I lean back and sink onto the couch, deflated. I feel like I just did a meet-and-greet with a pack of stone cold weirdoes.

“What do you mean enough?”

“I really don’t want to do that again, Jazz. How do people do that? Like every day, go on these sites?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m a strong enough woman for that.” I look down at my watch. “I lasted thirty seconds.”

“There is one other option...” Jazzy is all too happy to remind me.

Ugh, her client. “Fine,” I mutter, defeated. I don’t want to do this again, so I don’t really have a choice. I have the entire week to meet people and it will not be from an online dating site. “I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Jasmine brightens. “That’s great! I kind of knew this would happen, so I already set something up.” She looks down at her watch. “For...ten hours from now.”

I do a double-take. “What? You already made arrangements for me to meet this guy?”

“Of course I did. I may not have online dated in a while, but I know it sucks. And that you would never go for it. So I was efficient. I made the plans you should have agreed to anyway.”

Jasmine cooks with weed for a living. She’s never efficient. “But...how did you...?” I stammer, trying to find the words.

“Know this was going to happen?” Jazzy finishes for me. “Because I know you. I know how you operate. Online dating just isn’t for you. You work better in person.”

I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself. I couldn’t really argue with that. Being the salesperson she is, Jazzy could read anyone like a book. To be a successful entrepreneur in New York, she had to be. She even claimed her powers grew stronger every time she was under the influence. Jasmine Lee certainly had my number, that’s for sure.

“So you made a reservation for a restaurant tonight? How far is it?”

Jazz shrugs. “Not a restaurant—just a drink at a bar around the block. Here, let me spruce you up.” She reaches out her hands and fluffs my hair a little. “Do you want me to do your makeup?”

I eye Jasmine’s teal lipstick and glittery green eye shadow—boy does this woman love glitter—and hesitate. “Nah, I think I’m good.”

She then looks me up and down, surveying my outfit. “I wish you’d worn something different.”

I look down at myself. “What’s wrong with this? It’s a maxi dress.”

“It looks like a nightgown.”

“That’s precisely why women wear them. They’re comfortable as hell.”

“Men don’t care about comfortable. They want your tits out. I don’t have to be straight to know that.”

Jazz circles one of her hands around my wrist and pulls me in the direction of her closet.

“Why don’t you try on some of my clothes? I get hit on all the time in ’em.”

She opens the double doors and it’s a sea of ripped jeans, clothes pinned band tees and tie-dye. Chunky candy-hued platforms, spiked sneakers and glittery sandals all the colors of the rainbow line the floor. The shelf above her clothes rack is stuffed with all the props she wears to Pride parades—tutus lined with LED lights, feathery halos and wings with elastic straps to loop her arms through like a backpack—her collection is quite colorful in more ways than one.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass.”

Jasmine shrugs, then something catches her eye. “At least wear my favorite leather jacket over that dress. It’ll jazz you up a little. Pun intended.”

I humor her and take the jacket off the hanger. It’s worn to the point that it feels like butter. Gliding it on over my shoulders, I instantly feel a little cooler. The buckles jingle a little when I move. Jasmine stands behind me in the mirror and beams. “You look very New York.”