“That’s nothing. You’ve got plenty of time to find the right guy.”
“Never going to happen,” I said, moving my head back and forth. “You know why? Because I am never attracted to the right guy. I’m only attracted to bums. Handsome, heartbreaking Italians whose sole purpose in life is to humiliate me and make me miserable.”
“Monica,” Bob chuckled. “Come on. You’re a very attractive—”
“Nope,” I said, sticking out my index finger and putting it against his lips to keep him from saying more. “I’m not. I’m an idiot. I’ll prove it. But only if you promise not to tell anybody. Promise?”
I lifted my finger from his lips. Bob raised his right hand.
“Okay. I’ll tell you. Do you know who I went out with on Thursday?”
Bob shook his head.
“Dr. Mark Francatelli—also known as Dr. Dreamboat. He’s tall. He’s Italian. He’s gorgeous. He’s a doctor. What more could a girl want? He’s the perfect man. Even my mother would approve of him. And my mother?” I tipped my glass to my lips. “She doesn’t approve of anything—especially me.
“Anyway, Dr. Dreamboat came to the restaurant on Thursday, real late, after his shift and mine, to take me to the movies. It was fun, a romantic comedy with that blond girl. What’s her name? You know the one I’m talking about. The blond girl, the one with the face.”
“With the face?”
“Yeah, anyway,” I said, waving my hand, “doesn’t matter. So Dr. Dreamboat and I are watching the movie and splitting a bag of popcorn and a box of Junior Mints, and everything is going great.
“And I’m thinking, ‘Yes! This is good. This is going to work. Why? Because I finally had the sense to wait for the right guy, the perfect match, and then hold back and wait for him to come to me. I wasn’t pushy—well, except for that one time. But after that, I just let things lie. I didn’t call him. I didn’t e-mail or forward memes or funny animal videos. I stayed away from the ER, even when I was feeling like crap, because I didn’t want him to think that crazy, hypochondriac lady was stalking him. For once in my life, I just played it cool and laid low, and it’s finally paying off.’
“So, about halfway through the movie, when it gets to the steamy part where the girl is getting involved with the really good-looking guy who is totally wrong for her and everybody knows it but her, Dr. Dreamboat puts his hand on my thigh. And, Bob,” I said, leaning in, “I gotta tell you, I didn’t mind. At. All. It’s been a really long time, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Bob said, looking down at his plate as he spun his fork around. He’d been doing that for a while.
“So, after the movie, we get into the car and we start making out. So, after a while, things are getting pretty hot and heavy, you know?”
Bob didn’t say anything, just kept spinning his fork. By this time, he had a bite of linguine about the size of a tennis ball, so big he’d have had to unhinge his jaw like a boa constrictor to be able to eat it.
“Then, just as we’re kind of getting to the point of no return, his phone rings. And he answers it. At first I didn’t think that much about it because he’s a doctor, right? He’s gotta answer the phone, right? It’s in the Hypodermic Oath or something.”
“Hippocratic Oath.”
“Whatever. I should have suspected something right off. When his ringtone started playing the theme song from The Brady Bunch, I should have known something wasn’t right. But I didn’t. Why? Because I’m an idiot.”
“The Brady Bunch? So he’s married.”
“So married.” I tossed back some more wine, hoping, unsuccessfully, that it would wash the taste of humiliation from my mouth. “Five kids. Five! And you know what the worst part was? He didn’t even try to lie about it.
“He just looked at me and said, ‘Hey, that was my wife. The twins picked up some kind of flu bug, so I have to go home and help her out.’ ”
“And he’s definitely married?” Bob asked. “Not a divorced dad who’s really involved in his kids’ lives?”
“Definitely married. And for some reason, he thought I’d be fine with that. In fact, right before he took off—leaving me to take a cab back to the restaurant, I might add—he said, ‘Hey, this was fun. We should do it again soon.’ ”
“Really?” I said, throwing out my hands. “Why would he think I’d be okay with helping him cheat on his wife and five kids? Do I look like a home wrecker?”
“Not to me,” Bob said, putting down his fork and the tennis ball’s worth of pasta. “To me you look like a very caring, considerate, thoughtful, and loyal woman. Cute as hell to boot,” he said, raising his glass.
I was so ticked off that I didn’t really hear him.
“Why does everything always happen to me? I mean, apart from me being an idiot. I’ll tell you why—because I’m hunting for unicorns, that’s why?”
Bob scrunched up his face and tilted his head to one side. “Unicorns?”
“Unicorns. Mythical creatures that don’t exist outside of fairy tales, just like perfect men. There’s no such thing. Never was, never will be. I don’t believe in them, not anymore.”
“Neither do I,” Bob said. “Nobody’s perfect, men or women. But you know what I do believe in?”
“What?”
“Perfect matches. I believe that every now and then, two flawed, messed-up, imperfect people can come together and all their chips and cracks and broken bits match up in such a way that, together, they’re perfect. Or pretty close to it.
“Actually, that’s the reason I came over here tonight, Monica. I’ve been watching you for a while now, getting to know you, your kids, your past and your personality. I’ve got an idea that you and I might turn out to be a perfect match, or something close to it. And I think that warrants
