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older. Less attractive. Perhaps he wasn’t photogenic. Or perhaps I had just gotten so used to seeing him day after day that I never really studied his features before. His profile name was “babelfish360.” (Mine was “groundskeeper-silly.” Long and corny as hell, I know, but I couldn’t resist.)
    Computer geek seeks sci-fi chick , he wrote. Didn’t do much to warm the cockles of my heart. Then again, at least he made no promises of queen treatment or to be the final destination on my quest to find Mr. Right. The rest of his profile contained quotes and lists of books and movies that the sci-fi chick would know and appreciate. And, to my surprise, I knew most of them.
    Rather than reply to his message, I shut down my laptop and went to bed, dreading the awkward moment when I’d see him again. And sure enough, my stomach did somersaults the next day when he entered The Grounds, laptop case strung over his shoulder and thick computer manuals in hand (he was some kind of software programmer, that little I knew). He greeted Norman at the counter, high-fiving him in midair and morphing it into a handshake. While Norman prepared his latte, I occupied myself by loading a stack of dishes into the dishwasher.
    “Hey, Eva,” Scott called, extending himself just short of climbing across the counter to get a glimpse of me. I pretended not to see or hear him. He said it again.
    I turned and feigned surprise. “Oh, hey, Scott.” He possessed a devilish grin that worried me.
    “Eva, those are clean ,” said Norman, pointing to the dishes. I stopped and sighed and stared at them, silently cursing myself.
    “You OK?” Scott asked.
    “Fine,” I said.
    “You look a little nervous. Got a hot date or somethin’?”
    I turned and shot him an angry glance. Scott was never one to be an asshole, but something apparently had gotten into his water supply, and I had to nip this in the bud.
    “Actually, I should be asking you that question,” I said. “Any good hits on Lovematch-dot-com lately?”
    “You’re doing Lovematch-dot-com?” asked Norman.
    “Well how else are you supposed to do it, dude?” replied Scott.
    “Duh! Look around you!” Norman said, gesturing his arms in a round-up motion of the café.
    My eyes panned across the café. A group of Originals was clustered in their usual corner by the counter. Neil, the Regular who came in like clockwork every day at one thirty for a coffee and Cookie of the Week and stayed precisely for twenty minutes, sat on a bar stool facing the picture window. In the opposite corner, two students were hunched over their laptops. And Car Talk Kenny occupied his perch just outside the reading room.
    “It’s all couples and impoverished grad students! Isn’t that right, Eva?”
    “Hardly,” I said, ready to list any number of academics, telecommuters, and independent contractors. “And who are you—Steve Jobs? That’s a helluva low opinion of my clientele you got there.”
    “I’m just sayin’,” said Scott, “I’m not waiting for the woman of my dreams to walk through those doors. Instead, I’m being proactive. Obviously you got the same idea, although I thought you were all gung-ho for the single life. Or are you doing some kind of sociological experiment for your blog—you know, like 30 Days with Morgan Spurlock ?”
    I handed Scott his BLT pita wrap, shooting him another murderous look, but it was too late; Norman caught on and opened his mouth, pointing at me.
    “You didn’t!”
    He said this within earshot of the Originals.
    “Didn’t what?” asked one of them.
    “Eva joined Lovematch-dot-com,” Norman announced. Like a first-grader, I folded my arms on the counter, buried my head into them, and groaned.
    “You’re kidding! Let’s look her up!” I heard Dean say.
    “Oh my God,” I moaned, the words muffled in my folded arms.
    “Hey, Eva, can we not violate the sanitary codes, please?” said Norman.
    “Here she is!” said Dean. “Hey, that’s a