“If I’d been a dog person,” Clive Better began, “none of it would have happened.”
His date du moment blinked at him. “None of what?”
“I certainly wouldn’t be walking around with a tube of antiseptic. Or scratches.”
“I was going to ask you about those,” Hi-my-name-is-Shelly admitted. “It’s a good look for you, though. Very, uh, masculine.”
“It’s very painful,” he corrected, touching the purpling swelling. He knew it wasn’t possible that the scratches covered him from chin to forehead, but after feeling them sting for the last few hours, it sure felt that way. “She nailed me when my guard was down. One of them nailed me. Maybe all of them. Plus, she had a concealed cat. That’s probably against the law right there.”
“A concealed what?” Hi-my-name-is-Shelly asked. He accurately read her expression: what the hell am I getting into with this guy?
“Time!” the pathologically cheerful moderator called. “Ladies, move one table to your left. Gentlemen, get ready to meet the one! Maybe. Now,” he added (Clive had already blanked on his name), “Now, isn’t this way more hard core than regular speed dating? This is hyper speed dating! All right!”
“He’s giving me a headache,” Hi-my-name-is-Anne commented as Clive sat across from her.
“I wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t so manic.”
“You haven’t seen manic. I’ve seen manic. Just a couple of hours ago I saw it.” He touched his cheek and winced. “I’ve gotten manic all over myself.”
* * *
When it began, he’d suspected nothing. He was leaving another satisfied client’s home; no more would the fearful and damp Mrs. Klein worry about her Persian rugs once he found the source of the leak and fixed it. She’d been so nice, and so grateful, she’d insisted on taking a dozen of his cards to pass among her friends. Since she lived in Edina, one of the tonier Minneapolis suburbs, chances were good that her friends had as much disposable income as she did.
This is the life, Clive exulted, tooting his van’s horn to hear it beep You Better, You Bet back at him. It went nicely with the slogan lettered on the side of his van (tastefully painted in serial-killer green): CLIVE BETTER PLUMBING. NO ONE’S BETTER THAN BETTER!
“Life is good,” he said aloud. He didn’t mind talking to himself. Solitary by nature, and lonely by same, he was his own best listener. “And once they—whoa!”
He stomped on the brakes. Naw, that wasn’t quite right. He stood on the brakes, and thus barely avoided pancaking the cat as the black and white blur dashed across the street.
He was pissed, but realized it was the adrenaline surge, not any particular hatred for cats. In fact, he liked cats. He had two himself, Garbage and Dammit. Though small, his pets were so indulged, so fat, they were occasionally mistaken for discarded footballs.
He pulled to the side of the road and shakily climbed out of the van. Adrenaline surges—he hated ‘em. They always kicked in too late. Then you spent the rest of the day dreading the stroke. As a plumber, he’d had his share. (Of adrenaline rushes, not strokes.) He’d dodged facefuls of shit more than once. Maybe he liked cats because, after being a plumber for a decade, he had the reflexes of one.
“Oh gosh, oh jeepers-gosh-drat-rats!”
He turned to look. And kept turning to stare. She was gorgeous. A woman—girl, really, probably early 20s—was wringing her hands, pacing back and forth beneath the tree alongside the road, dressed in khaki capris, a red tee-shirt, and matching red sandals. She had dark purple polish on her toenails; her buttercup-colored hair was shoulder-length. Her big, pretty eyes were focused on the tree. Specifically the top branches where, he realized, following her gaze, the cat had fled.
“I’ll never get her back in time,” she informed Clive, speaking through her fingers, which were pressed against her mouth. “My friend’s going
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