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more often hitting up spots outside Sorenson whenever they feel the need to trip the light fantastic.
    Dom, who is standing with one hip cocked to the side and his arms crossed over his chest, eyes me as I emerge from the ladies’ room. “You look fabulous,” he coos. “That Barbara truly is a miracle worker.”
    “Thanks, I think.” The flattery is nice, but Dom’s declaration of what a miracle worker my hairdresser is makes me wonder just how awful he thought I looked before. Barbara’s full-time job is doing make-up and hair for corpses at the Keller Funeral Home. She also does side work on live people in the basement of the place, and Izzy took me to her a few weeks ago after declaring me in need of a major overhaul. The whole thing was a bit creepy at first but I eventually grew comfortable with lying down—the only position Barbara is able to work in—to have my hair done. And the woman is truly a genius. Not only did she give my hair the best color, cut, and style it’s had in years while also helping me plan the perfect funeral, she introduced me to a whole new make-up regimen that, according to her, no longer makes me look like one of the undead.
    Thoughts of the undead remind me of my pending date. “I guess you can go ahead and call William-not-Bill,” I tell Izzy.
    He shakes his head. “I’ll get the number for you but you’re going to do the talking.”
    I frown at him but realize he’s right; the invitation needs to come from me. “What if he says no?” I ask as Izzy searches for the number in his Rolodex, wondering if my ego can handle being rejected by one of the dating world’s bottom feeders. “What do I do then?”
    “He won’t say no. You’re the first date he’s had in over two years that didn’t run screaming from the room after half an hour. Trust me; he’s desperate for female company. He’ll go out at anytime with anyone.”
    As Dom gives me an ouch look and mimes an arrow piercing his chest, Izzy hands me his cell phone and a card with William’s number on it.
    I dial the number on the card and wait as the call goes through. William-not-Bill answers on the third ring with a breathless, slightly annoyed-sounding, “Hello?”
    “Hi, William. I’m sorry for calling so late but I just got finished with the work I had to do and I was wondering—”
    “Who is this?” he interrupts, his breathing hard and heavy.
    “Oh, sorry, it’s Mattie. Mattie Winston? Your date from earlier this evening?”
    “Mattie!” he says, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you when the phone rang.”
    I wince and utter a silent prayer that his breathlessness and thoughts of me occurred while he was running on a treadmill, or doing sit-ups, or using a rowing machine.
    I hear rustling noises and then what sounds like a zipper in the background as William-not-Bill says, “I’m surprised to hear from you. I figured you’d be . . .” He pauses, then says, “Busy all night.”
    “Nope, we’re done for the evening, and Izzy, Dom, and I are going out for a drink to unwind a little. I wondered if you might like to join us.”
    There is a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment I think the call has been dropped. “William? Are you still there?”
    “I am,” he says quietly. “Is this a joke?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Is this one of those things where I get dressed and run out to meet you but you never show up?”
    “No, William, it’s not a joke.” Clearly the guy’s been stood up a time or two, and I feel a touch of sympathy for him. Then a wave of guilt washes over me as I remember that my own motives aren’t exactly pure. “I felt bad that our date got cut short and thought you might want to join us for a drink.”
    Another long silence follows before he finally says, “Okay. Where are you going?”
    There are three hole-in-the-wall bars located in downtown Sorenson, and even though they are all