Rated: E · Short Story · Romance/Love · #2285261
A matchmaker's true rival
|'Don't disappoint' they said. 'Become someone useful' they said. So I did. Got good money for it too.|
And all it took was one irresistibly flattering smile.
"You are the most gorgeous woman I've ever met." My date declares over the chatter of the other diners, placing a warm hand over mine on the table. For some reason, I get that phrase a lot. I don't think I'll ever understand what about my tanned skin, plump face, and wiry curls is enough to convince a man to cheat on his significant other. They weren’t the ones getting paid to crush a girl's heart.
I take my eyes away from the seat next to ours and make myself look at him. There's little passion behind my gaze, but he doesn't need to know that. “Your wife would be sad to hear that.”
“Oh, Clara?” Eddie - I think that’s his name - is subconsciously hovering a spoon over his garlic soup. There’s a sudden distance in him, and I pull the edge of my cushioned chair closer, hungry for updates on his public relationship. “Filed for a divorce with her. Was my entire world she was…but that was before I met you.”
Bingo. My heart soars with the news, which I’m aware is quite a selfish reaction. I bring my glass to my mouth so the bittersweet taste of latte washes down the guilt of what I’ve done, and what I’ll have to do after this. Anything to settle the rent. Anything.
Unable to meet his eyes for this one, I break my own news to him while observing the tiled floor. There’s no pattern to it, exactly like the thoughts racing around my head. “Sorry to hear that. I guess it’s a bad time to tell you that you’re not really my type after all.” No sooner have the words been muttered that Eddie’s face falls.
“Would you repeat that?” He starts, but I don’t. Utensils clatter against plates as I bump into the table in my hurry to bust out of the cafe. Waiters carrying dangerously tall stacks of dishes on their plastic trays are coming and going in every direction, therefore I ensure I'm careful darting around them in my pointed toe flats. Rule number one in the match breaking business, never wear heels to an appointment. Unless you’re one of those multi-talented celebrities who strut through the bustling red carpets on platforms three inches thick. I’m not.
Like always, people are goggling. A brief turn behind my shoulder shows the woman from the nearby seat earlier getting up.
“Hey, I divorced my wife for you! You can’t just bail out!” I purse my lips hearing my date’s shouting, and seeing the rest of my path clear, make a beeline for the heavy double doors. Humid air from outside greets me like a warm hug. Once I’m out and around the corner, I stop and wait. It’s not long before I see the same woman emerging, a huge beam spread from ear to ear. My smile however, is able to outstretch hers when she reveals a fistful of neatly rolled up dollar bills.
“I’ve handled Ed. Might want to lay low for a while still.”
I laugh. My client is acting like I have zero experience. “Trust me, he was one of the mildest cases I’ve had to deal with.”
This makes Clara chuckle along as she passes me my reward. “Thank you. For getting rid of my husband.”
“Ex-husband now.” I remind her. “And it’s no problem. Always happy to sabotage.”
See? Assisting those that were once head over heels but now head seeing through the clouds in the most creative way possible. Who wouldn’t call that useful?
I am a match breaker, capital B. I’m not proud of it. But I don’t think I’ll be changing anytime soon.