Shift

The person standing on my front porch looked exactly like the type of man my mother would set me up with—I wanted to throw myself off a bridge the second I opened the door. Don't get me wrong, he was attractive, if you like clean cut banker types with $500 haircuts. I prefer a man with a bit more, how shall I put it, character.

“Good evening, Natasha.” He showed off his expensive dental work while thrusting a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy at me. “You look ravishing this evening.”

“Thanks. Richard.” I bit the head off one of the roses and spit it at him. “Let's get this over with.”

He chuckled and shook his finger at me. “Your mother told me you were a spitfire.”

I thought it was weird that he picked up the decapitated blossom and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Even weirder that he wanted to continue our date. Did he drive a Beemer? Of course. The man was a walking cliché.

I slouched in the passenger seat and gave him the side eyes. “So, Richard, do people call you Dick? I'll bet a lot of people call you Dick.”

“Actually, most people call me Rich. Which is apropos, because I am,” he said with a wag of his eyebrows. The last man that wagged his eyebrows at me lost his head. Literally.

“You have money? Great. You can buy yourself one of those new robotic love dolls, I hear...