With Betsy gone, the solitude was getting a little depressing. I know it’s pathetic, or just plain lazy, but I don’t have time to meet girls the old-fashioned way. I’ve been selling vacuums wholesale out of my house, working 60 hours plus a week. I got a shed in the back where I store supplies and I run all the orders through my website. Steve, a buddy of mine from college, lets me borrow a couple of his trucks and I slip cash to this Russian family down the street to drive my orders out. I’m on the computer all day arranging orders anyway, so finally I swallow my pride, remind myself that Betsy is not coming back, and check out one of these online dating services. Three hours later I’ve got a date for Friday night. Alex. She’s a Scorpio, 5’9”, 135 pounds. Turn ons: Daniel DeLewis. Turn offs: Robert Deniro.

I’m not surprised, exactly. But I didn’t think it would be that easy.

I drive to her place in my Ford Explorer, scolding myself for purchasing the vehicle a month earlier. What if she hates SUVs? They’ve become public symbols, for chrissake. I might as well be wearing a Pro-Life shirt or waving a banner that says “Pull the Plug.” The Explorer is green though, and caked in mud, so I plan to pass myself off as a legitimate outdoorsman if need be. But she glances at the car when she answers the door and doesn’t seem to mind. Some of my worry dissolves then, but not all of it. Her appearance is difficult to read. She has a droopy face that looks older than the rest of her body, and the makeup is lathered on pretty thick, looking crumbly around the nostrils. She’s wearing a long, faded, corduroy skirt and a modest, white T-shirt. Between the makeup and concealing clothes, the only skin she’s showing is her arms, which look smooth and firm—promising.

But still, not the type I’m used to. Back in college I would steal knickknacks from junkyards and then go bar to bar selling them as decorations. Spending so much time in the bars, I couldn’t help but get involved with a few of the women. All I can tell about this Alex girl is that she’s the last lady you’d find in some back-alley dive, flirting for pitchers of High Life.

I say hi and introduce myself and she does the same, putting her hand out and laughing awkwardly as I give it a few delicate bobs. I still feel like I’m in unfamiliar territory as I walk her to the car and grope for conversation, but that laugh has got me hooked. Maybe I’ve found what I’ve been looking for. This girl is young, sexy, optimistic, and has the soft, folded face of a cow, an absolute cow. I take off on Route 19 towards Springville and try to keep the small talk coming—Where’d you grow up? How long you been single? You ever tried these dating services before?—but all I can think about is how strange her old face looks on her young body. She’s 27 and if those arms aren’t lying, she’s got a body to prove it, but that face looks like 45 trying to pass as forty. Not that I’m in a position to complain. At this point, any prospect is a good one. I’m sick of sitting in my house alone all day.

I start imagining her making coffee in my kitchen and some part of my brain is whispering that there is a congruity between an unattractive face and sexual depravity. I conjure up a vivid image in my head and I must have let the conversation die off cause she grabs this photo of my dog off the dash.

“Oh! How cute! What’s his name?” she asks.

“Her,” I say. “Betsy.”

She tells me she can’t wait to meet her.

She sounds genuinely excited about the dog and I have the presence of mind to withhold the fact that Betsy died last month in my backyard. If I have a fault, it’s that I’m always trying too hard to please.

Anyway, I take her back to my place to have some spaghetti. I had filled a pot with prepackaged meatballs and two jars of Ragu and put it on the stove before I left. When we walked in the whole house smelled fantastic.

She sits on the kitchen stool with her legs crossed—not even an ankle exposed—and says something about how much she admires a man who can cook. I’m thinking score. I’m totally in. But I get a grip while I boil the pasta, reminding myself that this isn’t some sassy regular at The Tavern. This lady is kitty cats, reruns of Friends, and 50 pairs of white, cotton undies. I’m going to have to play it straight if I want someone to share breakfast with.

The rest of the night is pleasant chit chat, and most of my assumptions are confirmed. She has two cats, Romeo and Juliet. She doesn’t drink. She’s lived alone for about a year, ever since her boyfriend left her to travel cross country. She doesn’t know anything about computers and seems impressed that I do. Despite all of this she’s not boring. She makes wise cracks, pokes fun at the mangy facial hair I’ve neglected to shave for our first date. In my steamy kitchen, comfortable and full of homemade spaghetti, she lets girlish vibrancy peak through her weathered, made-up face. Fortunately, she seems to have forgotten about Betsy.

Well after midnight I drive her home. I walk her to her doorstep and play it by the rules: just a quick little kiss on her cheek, the warmest smile I can muster. I had a wonderful night. Oh, so did I. We are too cute.

Then I go home and hack into her e-mail account. It’s empty. But the next day after I finish doing the morning orders I check again and find an unopened email from her sister. My mouse-pointer hovers over the link for a moment as I weigh the pros and cons. I decide I’m going to need the upper hand if I want to win this thing, and the e-mail might contain some crucial information. click. It reads like so: Sis, I’m so happy for you! It sounds like you’ve found just what you’ve been looking for. And he cooks! Don’t rush into this thing though. You’ve only had one date. You remember how things turned out with Charlie? And I recall you singing a similar tune when you met him. This guy sounds sweet and I wish you all the best, but you’re my baby sister, and I’ve had enough of you gettin’ jerked around. This time, if you get screwed over, the bastard’s gonna pay. Love yas. Jenny.

Shoot, I think. This ogre is gonna blow my cover. I resolve to keep an eye on the account, to monitor Jenny’s bitterness.

Alex calls up the next day and asks if I’d like to take my lunch break at her place. I show up at her door with some wild flowers from my lawn and she just melts. We make plans to do the same thing the following day and soon it becomes a routine. We eat sandwiches, chat, and flirt. Sometimes she turns on the radio and we pretend we know how to tango. I help her with the dishes and then she makes me tea before I leave. We’re getting somewhere. Each day, on my way out, we kiss. On the lips. No tongue. And once my hand started wandering down towards the back of her thigh, but she gently grabbed my wrist and told me she’d see me tomorrow.

On our fifth lunch date, a pair of loose-fitting shorts replaces the long skirt and now I’m the one melting. But she’s quieter than usual. After sandwiches she pulls her chair up close to mine and takes my hand in hers.

“Listen,” she says. “I really enjoy spending time with you. But when I look back at all my failed relationships, I can’t help but notice that the ones which began with the most innocence and pleasure, ended in the most pain. So if I seem weary at times, or reluctant, it’s only because I think you’re such a sweetheart. There are certain mistakes that I’m trying not to repeat.”

I smile and put an arm around her. I tell her I hadn’t even noticed. I tell her I enjoy spending time with her too. I tell her she’s worth all the patience in the world. A sweetheart? Me? I couldn’t hurt a flea if I tried.

Under all that foundation I see her face redden slightly, and she asks: “You don’t think I’m a prude or anything?”

“Oh, baby,” I coo. “That’s not what I’m about.”

We drink our tea and she tells me she misses my home cooking. She wants to do lunch at my place tomorrow. I tell her that my place sounds perfect.

As usual, I check her e-mail that night. I find another new message from her sister. I’ve got a paranoid streak in me, and I’m wondering if there’s a reason for Alex asking all of a sudden to eat at my house. click. But the e-mail doesn’t have any text in it. Strange.

We start doing lunch at my place. She drives herself over every afternoon and every time she walks through the door she calls “Betsy! Here girl! C’mere Bets!”

I tell her Betsy ran off into the woods this morning and probably won’t be back until evening. I tell her I had to take Betsy to the vet because she caught something in the woods. I tell her I occasionally loan Betsy to the kid a few miles down the road cause he doesn’t have anyone to play with.

One day I tell her I had to give Betsy up. She gives me a curious stare as I stir up some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on the stove. Since we began eating at my house, the quality of cuisine has dropped dramatically.

“Have you been reading my e-mails?” she asks.

“No. Um… no,” I say.

“Where do you keep Betsy’s dog food and dog bowl?”

“In the shed,” I say, trying to sound utterly perplexed. Betsy’s food and bowl are long gone.

She walks out to the shed and comes back looking cross. I look at her standing in the kitchen doorway, her supple legs stiffened, her arms folded under her gorgeous breasts. Angry tears carve a map into her crumbly makeup. But my mind is somewhere else. I’m thinking about Betsy, and the storm she had to die in. I was hauling a load of parts out of the shed in my pickup; it was raining like hell; my tires were spinning in the grass, kicking mud smack against the shed wall. And then a distant, muffled yelp that I wasn’t even sure I heard.

“You’re just like the rest,” she mutters, trying to keep her composure. “You’re just after sex.”

“Yeah,” I say, defeated. “But, I really wanted some company, too.”

I begin to cry. Alex, unfortunately, is not nearly as touched by this first moment of honesty as I am.