Celia had brought her laptop to the coffee shop as a prop. If her date didn’t show up, she was just another writer tapping away at her computer and drinking a coffee milkshake. If he did show up, she could use whatever was on the screen as a way of jump-starting the conversation. Getting the guy’s take on the news of the day was a useful way of getting straight to the core of his beliefs, Celia had found. And if the guy didn’t have an opinion, Celia wrote him off right away. She’d been a political science major before she went to film school; people who didn’t care about what was going on around them made her crazy.

After three months of online dating, she had it down to a science. She always met for coffee, never for a meal. She always came early so she could study the guy as he walked in the door. They got bonus points if they held the door for the person behind them instead of letting it slam. She liked to check out their body language, see how they presented themselves.

It gave her a bit of an edge.

She clung to that edge. The last time she’d seriously dated had been in college. She was out of practice.

She’d embarked on the whole online adventure prepared to keep an open mind. She’d read The Year of Yes and decided to follow the book’s advice, saying “yes” to Mullet Guy and Beatnik Guy and Emo Guy. She’d said “yes” to Intense Guy and Rico Suave Guy and Scary Tattoo Guy. She’d even said “yes” to Older Guy (who turned out to be even older than he’d admitted to) and Fat Guy and Dude Guy. She told herself “it’s just coffee” and “you never know” and “you might learn something” and tried to enjoy herself.

The most stimulating conversation she’d had was with Scary Tattoo Guy, who turned out to be a former rock musician with a degree in philosophy and a job as a psychiatric nurse. They hadn’t made a love connection but she’d been fascinated by his stories about work.

The shortest date she’d had was with Fat Guy who’d told her he thought she needed to tone up if she intended to describe her body type as “slender.”

She couldn’t figure out if he was using that technique of dissing girls to make them insecure or if he was just effing stupid but either way, she’d told him it was nice to meet him but that she had to go.

He’d just shrugged and let her go.

When she looked back into the shop on her way to the parking lot, she’d seen him staring into the pastry case. She’d sighed and decided she needed to modify her profile again.

It had taken her forever to fill out the form in the first place. Some of the questions she answered were more personal than things she discussed with her gynecologist.

She’d listed her favorite books and her favorite movies and her favorite music. She’d written down her hopes and dreams. She’d had a friend take some photos of her with and without makeup disguising her scars.

She’d enumerated the qualities she was looking for in a date.

The only thing she was absolutely adamant about was that she didn’t want to date anyone who had a real or imagined link to the entertainment industry. Three different guys, including one who’d posed for a profile picture with his Emmy, tried to convince her that they weren’t like all those other show-biz guys.

She’d politely declined their advances.

Celia had high hopes for the guy she was waiting for.

He had reached out to her and she’d been delighted.

His picture had caught her eye but it was his page that captured her attention. He was smart and funny and self-deprecating and knowledgeable.

He loved traveling, he said, but was tired of going solo. He loved cooking, he said, and longed to show off those skills to someone who enjoyed eating.

What had clenched the deal for her was the final line in his personal statement. “I am searching for a Technicolor woman in a black and white world.”

A week of online banter had ensued before they agreed to meet face to face.

Celia hated to admit it, but she was a little nervous.

To calm herself, she cruised CNN, checking out the headlines. Libya. Dr. Conrad Murray. She was reading a story about a man being bitten by a great white shark when she felt a presence hovering. She looked up to see Eric standing in front of her.

“Hi Celia,” he said and sat down in the chair across from her.

“Um,” she said, hating herself for sounding tentative. “I’m meeting someone.”

“I know,” he said.

What do you mean ‘You know?’

“Ryan Hartsook? Associate at Alden, Alden and Taylor?”

Celia gaped at her former fiancé.

“Looking for a Technicolor woman in a black and white world?”

What the hell? She thought, and then it fell into place for her.

“You’re Ryan Hartsook?”

Eric smiled bashfully. “I am,” he admitted. “Don’t be mad.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she said. “Who’s Ryan Hartsook?”

“A guy I met at the health club. He let me use his credit card to set up the account.”

“And the pictures?”

“Dreamstime,” he said. “I thought he looked like your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Sure you do,” Eric said. “You like tall skinny guys with dark hair and a little bit of beard.”

Celia stared at Eric in dismay. He’d just described Dale, the guy she’d cheated with.

Does he know? she wondered.

“You like blue collar guys who can change tires and pitch tents, and stop faucets dripping.”

“Eric,” Celia said, wanting to stop him before he humiliated himself any further.

He held up his hand. “I know I’m not your type Celia. I’ve always known that. But I can make you happy. Every word I wrote in that profile is true.”

“You used a fake guy’s picture,” Celia said. “You played me.”

She looked at him sternly. “It’s creepy.”

“I had to do something,” Eric said. “You wouldn’t return my calls.”

Celia shook her head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Please Celia.”

She shook her head again. “No,” she said, “I can’t do this Eric.”

As she reached over to close her laptop, she caught sight of the breaking news headline scrolling across the screen: Actor Garibaldi Fox dead of cancer at 49.

“Oh God,” she said.

Eric heard the strangeness in her voice. “What?”

He spun the laptop around, read the headline for himself.

He looked up at Celia who was blindly gathering her things, blinking back tears.

“You shouldn’t be driving,” he said, closing the laptop and picking it up.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“I need to go to my mom’s.”

“I’ll take you,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said and then she threw her arms around him and hugged him close.

“I’m so sorry Ceelie,” he said to her, hugging her back. ‘I’m so, so sorry.”

Yes, he thought. I can make this work.