Read Why I Love Singlehood: for Free Online

not been conversational all day, not even when Shaun walked in and ordered a mochaccino, looking at the plate that still contained a few slivers.
    “I thought so,” said Shaun.
    “Excuse me?” I asked while handing him his drink and collecting his money.
    “It’s Lemon Torte Day.”
    He remembered.
    I looked into Shaun’s eyes, and time stopped. They reflected compassion, the warm gaze of a lover who held me on the anniversaries of my parents’ deaths, when Olivia wasn’t there to rub my back while I cried. The man who kissed me after one bite of lemon torte; I could taste the custard on his tongue. My Shaun. Soon to belong to the Jeanette. Where had he been all this time? Why had he left?
    “Thank you,” I said, my voice breaking just above a whisper.
    I excused myself and went into the back room, where I sat on the edge of the desk in the cramped office and took several deep breaths. A photo of Mom, Dad, Olivia, and me at Disneyworld—all wearing Mickey Mouse ears—watched me from the upper right-hand corner of the desk. I was ten, Olivia was fourteen, and Mom and Dad were in their midforties. They looked so young and vibrant and healthy. We were all so happy. I buried my face in my hands and cried.
    The door to the office opened, and I uncovered my face to see Norman holding it for Shaun. I’d never seen that look on Norman’s face, one of paralyzed uncertainty, as Shaun entered and hugged me close. How I wanted to hate Shaun in that moment, to tell him to go away and never come back, to curse him for leaving me just as my parents had done. At least they had a good excuse. But instead I held on to him, inhaling his scent and wishing for the moment to last, if only to have him back again.
    When I regained my composure and emerged from the back room with Shaun, my eyes still glassy, Norman didn’t ask why I was upset, didn’t say a word. Just whispered in my ear that I could go home if I wanted to. I shook my head; I was already home, I said. He kissed me on my cheek.

     
    The torte was long gone by the time Olivia returned my call.
    “Hey,” she said.
    “Hey,” I answered. “Happy Torte Day,” I said sadly.
    “Yeah,” her voice was soft, faded like the edges of my memories. “You too.”

Friends First
     
    SITTING ON MY bed after work, perusing Facebook and other blogs, I stared at my laptop screen before opening up Google’s homepage. I then stared at the empty Search box, waiting for me to make a move. As if my hands were on automatic pilot, the letters appeared in lowercase form, one by one: l-o-v-e-m-a-t-c-h-.-c-o-m.
    Enter.
    The homepage appeared and two more blank boxes stared at me, asking for my username and password. Not a member? Sign up now!
    My focus remained fixed on the screen. An abnormally gorgeous couple practically batted their eyelashes at me. The next thing I knew, I was filling in more blank boxes with my name, address, date of birth, ethnicity, height, body type, eye and hair color, astrological sign, religion, political affiliation, likes and dislikes, and checking boxes of my ideal match. Blue eyes. Non-smoker. Six feet tall. Average build. No terrorists, stalkers, or Toby Keith fans. Libertarians and/or Independents optional. Divorced fathers optional. Married fathers definitely out.
    I paused again, the cursor hovering on the tagline. Friends first , I finally typed. Then I found a photo—one of me leaning my elbow on the counter, wearing a slate gray shirt that almost perfectly matched my eyes. Minerva had taken it with her cell phone, I think, as I rested my chin on my hand, my unruly chestnut hair spilling down to frame a half smile. I uploaded it and clicked Submit .
    A half hour later, as I lay in the dark on my back, staring at the ceiling and waiting to fall asleep, I spoke out loud: “Aw, crap. What the hell did I do that for?”

Busted
     
    WITHIN THE FIRST week of posting my profile on Lovematch.com, I’d received three “winks,” two invitations for