Dating Dead Men Read Online Free

claimed to be five nine was indeed five nine, and to allow the prospect to get a look at the woman in question. It sounded like a lot of work, but as Dr. Cookie pointed out, most people have a matchmaking instinct, and in fact, finding the Discriminating Friends was the easy part. Even so, I insisted on giving Fredreeq 10 percent of my research fee, just for the time she put in. My other discriminating friend, Joey, wouldn't take any money—bad enough, she said, that she was currently sponging off her husband. Fredreeq said that was the kind of marriage she aspired to, but as her own husband was more sponge than spongee, she was happy to get a piece of my research fee.
    The tricky part was getting men to agree to the Drive-by and interrogation process, and a certain number of prospects dropped out at this point. But Joey and Fredreeq were persuasive talkers, noting that the Drive-by worked both ways, and many men, being visually oriented, came to see the value of setting eyes on a woman before committing themselves to dinner and a movie. An unexpected side effect was that a fair number of them hit on Joey and Fredreeq.
    For us research subjects, the entire process was designed to wipe out those three unscientific elements so dear to the hearts of romantics: chance, subjectivity, and “chemistry.”
    â€œI have a degree in science,” Dr. Cookie liked to say, “and I'm here to tell you that what y'all call chemistry is nothing but plain ol' lust, with a half-life of about twelve minutes.”
    No danger of that tonight. I'd be lucky to end the night with all my teeth, they were chattering so violently. I pulled down the sun visor but there was no mirror attached. My eyes watered from exposure, which meant there were mascara tears grafted onto my face. I wiped my nose with my hand, wishing I had a Kleenex or even a coat sleeve. “Dave,” I said, “I'm feeling a little self-conscious. I think the wind has blown off all my makeup.”
    â€œThat's okay,” Dave said cheerfully. “You were wearing too much anyway.”
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    T HE PEOPLE AT the Malibu Bat Cave hadn't heard of Dave. That pretty much killed his cheerfulness. After an extended discussion with a maître d' named Klaus and an exchange of twenty dollars, we were seated on the veranda, overlooking a Dumpster.
    It was cold on the veranda. I drank a lot of hot tea, before, during, and after my angel hair pasta. Dave had multiple extra dry Beefeater martinis and sweetbreads in carmelized citrus sauce.
    I learned all about Dave's last girlfriend, who left him to follow the Dalai Lama, and the girlfriend before that one, who joined Alcoholics Anonymous and was no fun anymore. I learned about the sexual preferences of people I'd never heard of. As Dave talked, I took a discreet glance at my watch, a Patek Philippe from the thirties, inherited from Ruta when she died. My only real piece of jewelry, the watch had a tiny face and required some squinting, but I was delighted to see we were approaching the two-hour mark, that magic point that made a date official, by Dr. Cookie's rules. Number Nineteen was the first date I'd considered bailing out on. That I hadn't done so was due to Ruta's voice in my head, urging me on. Telling me I could do this, that I was tough.
    I had to be. Thirteen of the Dating Project subjects had been at it since Halloween. Pittsburgh was replaced at Christmas when she eloped with Date Number Five, and the original Los Angeles had dropped out to act in a production of
The Fantasticks
. I was her successor, brought in on Groundhog Day—so late in the game that my forty dates had to be squeezed into the space of two months for Dr. Cookie to keep to her writing schedule. If I averaged two nights off each week, it worked out to be forty dates in forty nights. There were those who said it couldn't be done, but there were those who didn't know what it was to truly need five