Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski

therefore affirm the notion that I have one), “Do you prefer an em dash or an en dash?” Instead, she says, “Can I fix you up with my brother?”
    â€œHuh? Your brother?”
    â€œYeah, I think you’re his type.”
    I’m not sure exactly how she’s come to this decision since I don’t even know what type I am. But she nods with affirmation, so I ask, “What type am I, exactly?”
    â€œSmall, curly hair, cute, outgoing, smart.” And to think I always had so much trouble defining myself in magazine quizzes.
    â€œHow do you know he’s my type?” Does this mean my type is short with curly hair like me? Or is my type skinny and bony like Julie?—assuming, of course, that her brother looks like her. At this point I am extremely hopeful; if she can define my type, it will certainly save me a lot of time on bad dates in the future.
    â€œYou don’t think my brother, Tim, would be your type?” she says, huffed. “He’s a great guy.”
    Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 3: stay clear of guys described as great. “He’s a great guy” is the masculine equivalent of “She’s got a great personality.”
    As much as I was considering it before (which was virtually nil due to the fact I never even knew that Julie had a brother—in fact, it always surprises me whenever a person I’ve been acquainted with for a while suddenly emerges as having a life, this reaction probably sprouting from too much editing of paper-people), the chance that I will ever date Julie’s short, curly haired bony brother with the great personality has now dwindled into nonexistence.
    It’s not that I have anything against short, curly haired, bony guys with great personalities, particularly if they’re my type, but I will not, let me emphasize not, date a guy who has the same name as my dad. Too weird. Too Freudian. How could I whisper his name in his ear? How could I scream his name in ecstasy? In anger, maybe—that is, scream his name, not whisper in his ear. Not that I’m ever angry at my dad. I’m only angry at my mom, sometimes, though I can never figure out why. No Freud there, either.
    â€œActually,” I tell Julie, “I just started seeing someone.”
    Liar, liar, pants on fire.
    Â 
    Time for my second cup. Coffee breaks remind me of recess, except there aren’t any cute guys at work to pretend to ignore. There aren’t even any not-so-cute guys. Of the two hundred Cupid employees, one hundred and sixty-seven are women. Thirty-five of these women are pregnant. Weekly Lamaze classes are conducted on the third floor.
    This pathetic female-male ratio unfortunately results in a low potential for making male friendships. So where else am I supposed to make male friends so that they can fix me up with their friends? It’s not like I can saunter up to a guy at a bar and say, “Hi, wanna be my friend?” Andrew would actually be an excellent male friend, but I haven’t seen him since the movie fiasco. I thought maybe he’d be at Orgasm on Friday, but no, he was probably off frolicking with his Sweet Valley Twin.
    Friday night…
    Instead of talking to Andrew, I had to spend the entire night avoiding E-reek. It turns out he’s not royalty at all, just some Euro guy with a lot of money. Natalie was not impressed. She insisted we ignore him, which drove him crazy, so he kept sending over fancy vodka shots, which Nat kept refusing, which I kept drinking. Well, someone had to. Obviously Nat’s indifference threw E-reek into a seizure of love, once again proving the bitch theory, Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 4: men want you more when you don’t want them. (This fact is different from fact number two where you’re supposed to remain aloof in order to snare your man; fact number four warns you of the possibility that overcoolness on your part might lead to potential stalkers.) Take