Page 2 of Error Handling
“You’re an artist.”
“So are you,” she says, giving me the side-eye.
“Don’t lie.”
“You’re about to graduate with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Painting. You’re an artist, Sarah.”
“A BFA doesn’t make someone an artist.”
Luna winces. “You’re too hard on yourself.” She sits up and wraps her arms around her bent knees, unconcerned about getting more paint on her worn, wide-legged jeans.
I plant my hand firmly on the floor. To heck with the white floorboards. “Have you seen my oil paintings? I’m marginally better at acrylics. Marginally. You have a gift. I have an unrequited desire to have a gift.”
“That’s a strange way to put it.”
“I’m strange. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Yeah, but...”
“At least I have a desire for something right? I mean, I’d rather have a desire for a male human, but the odds of that happening are slim to none.”
“I take it you don’t have high hopes for your date tonight?”
I shrug. “A computer picked him for me, so...”
After months of nagging, I finally agreed to trust my fate to my boss’s artificial intelligence matchmaking application, MatchAI. It’s bot, Cupid, learns from every successful match, supposedly becoming better and better at choosing mates. My boss is a genius, but Cupid has never met the likes of me.
“You don’t believe in your bosses app?”
“Her database is still small. Cupid matched me with some guy she knows from Toastmasters. He probably has hairs growing out of his nose.”
Luna throws her head back and cackles.
“It’s always something. Nose hairs. Weirdly placed moles. Tongue fissures. Bad breath. Chapped lips. Something always grosses me out. I think I’m broken.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’ve never had a legitimate crush on a real guy. There’s always something that makes me not want to put my lips anywhere near his face.”
“You like Zac Efron.”
“I’ve never been close enough to smell him, so it doesn’t count. I think my ovaries are shriveled up. The California Raisins Band is probably lounging in my uterus playing smooth jazz.”
“What’s the California Raisins Band?”
“They’re raisins that play jazz. My dad collects plastic figurines. Forget it.”
“Also, I think you mean your ovaries.”
I wave my hand. “Whatever.”
“Be comfortable with who you are. Things will sort themselves out. You just need to meet the right guy.”
I gaze toward the north bank of windows and bite the inside of my cheek. I’ve been waiting for the “right guy” since I was thirteen. What if there is no right guy, just an acceptable guy? How boring.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “Unless I want to turn into a thirty-year-old crazy dog lady, I have to date.”
“Which is why you’re going out tonight. So, what’s this guy like?”