Dating Is Murder

Dr. Exeter finished off the breadstick. “So what was the question? Oh, yes, sex. Go at it like rabbits, and don’t waste any time. Every menstrual cycle counts.”

“What about freezing her eggs right now?” Fredreeq asked. “In case Prince Charming is ru

The entire room, it seemed, turned to look at her, sitting in the booth behind us.

“Cut! Hey, Miss Dumb,” Bing yelled. “You are the makeup artist. You do not speak.”

“Yeah, sorry, forgot,” Fredreeq said.

“Good question, though,” the doctor said, turning back to the camera. “You can freeze anything, but what survives the thaw? Sperm. Also embryos-fertilized eggs, that’s egg plus sperm-which requires both Prince and Princess Charming. Eggs alone? Not so great. The technology’s improving, but even when it happens, the time for freezing is in your prime. Early twenties, in a perfect world. In your case, uh, Willie, I’m afraid that boat has sailed.”

“Great, beautiful,” Bing said. “Let’s move in on our dream couple. Dr. Dan, do that whole speech again, so we can get Wollie and Carlito’s reaction to it.”

My reaction was simple. How many menstrual cycles had I squandered on my former fiancé? Five. Not that I blamed Doc for moving to Taiwan, but the devotion that made him a good father to his child meant he’d never father mine. He couldn’t abandon Ruby to her wacky mother, and by the time he was free to divorce and remarry, my eggs would be in a retirement home.

“I need a bathroom break before my close-up,” Carlito said.

This was a chance for the rest of us to take five. Out came cell phones as people took care of whatever business needed taking care of at 10:57 P.M., mostly checking in with significant others. As I had no significant other, I kicked off my shoes and took a walk around the restaurant. The other diners were gone, and the waiters sat at a table near the kitchen, counting tips and eating a meal of their own by candlelight, roast chicken with all the fixings. Their camaraderie was evident.

Melancholy engulfed me. I wanted to mother a child almost more than I could say. If I won the B.C. audience vote, one prize would be six months of fertility services at Dr. Exeter’s clinic, either with my fellow wi

A greeting card began to take shape in my head, featuring hens. It would be a combination birthday and condolence, something along the lines of “Happy 40th, Sorry About Those Eggs.”

A voice whispered in my ear, startling me. It was Paul, the production assistant.

“Wollie,” he said. “I’ve been, like, flipped out all weekend. About A

“When did you last see her?” I asked.

“Friday. But we talked on Saturday. I called to see if she wanted to come on a location scout Sunday. She said she couldn’t get the car, but it sounded not right to me.”

“Not right how?”

“Just… you know when someone’s, like, blowing you off? Like that. Only she wasn’t ever like that.”

“Did she ask you about a gun?”

Paul took off his baseball cap and scratched his unwashed-looking hair. “She asked if I had one, and I was like, Get real, why would you even want one, and she said, Tell you later. Then she asked Bing, and Joey, and Joey was saying about the waiting periods, and A

“Why would she need you to buy the gun for her?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe you have to be twenty-one or a U.S. citizen or something.”

Maybe. But why would a math-whiz au pair who phoned home every Sunday want a gun? I started feeling sick again. “Have you called her today?”

He nodded. “Today, yesterday, but I just get her machine. I don’t have the number for the people she lives with.”

“Paul! Are we lined up with Munich yet?” Bing’s voice boomed from across the restaurant. “And hey, bartender! You get ZPX? I got an episode airing.”

The bartender aimed a remote at the TV screen suspended above the bar, catching our opening sequence. A ticking clock grew bigger and bigger, then metamorphosed into an hourglass, which in turn became a test tube and, finally, a baby. Disco music pulsed in the background. The faces of the six contestants came into focus, each with a big question mark like a halo suspended overhead. The girls were first: coquettish Kimberly, with perfectly ironed straight black hair. Sava

I looked away. If there’s anything worse than hearing my voice on tape, it’s seeing myself on television. The opening sequence was bad, the actual episodes worse. Towering over my dates even when seated, breasts too big, hair too wispy, weird facial expressions that reminded me of my mother-it was more torturous than a bad photograph. Carlito, coming from the bathroom, was drawn to the small screen like a cat to ca

I thought of A

It was on the set that I’d last seen her. Four nights ago, at a bad Chinese restaurant in North Hollywood. Long past midnight Bing had yelled, “That’s a wrap!” and A

“I have a problem, Wollie,” she’d said. “I am in some trouble and I do not know who to tell who will not think badly of me. Could we talk for ten minutes? No more.”

I’d said yes, of course, knowing it would be far more than ten minutes, knowing A

I hadn’t seen her since.

She was my friend, and I hadn’t even given her ten minutes.