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Single In The Suburbs, Installment 108


Our writer’s foray into the singles-bar scene wasn’t good. Is it time to meet Loves To Cook instead?

By Sara Susannah Katz

To read the entire series of articles from the beginning, click here.

n our last installment, our columnist was frantically hitting the EJECT button from the singles bar after being dragged there by a well-meaning coworker, Tasha. Ironically, she’d also been nominated for an award in her field at the same time she’s worried about being laid off for strictly political reasons. Read on to find out what happens next…


Saturday, 1 a.m.
I’m home alone now, in bed with my laptop, and all I can think about are those nostrils, those monstrous nostrils. I didn’t wind up weeping, as I’d feared, but I did leave, after a quick signal to Tasha, who didn’t seem to mind my precipitous departure. As I drove I vowed again and again that I would never go
Is Steve asking me out? On an actual date?
to another pickup bar. I felt so deflated I couldn’t bear to listen to ABBA. I put on Joni Mitchell’s “Court and Spark” instead, the perfect music for my private pity party.

Sunday 6:30 am.
I’m wide awake. Whatever happened to my ability to sleep in until 10 or even noon some days? I check my email and discover that Loves To Cook, Doesn’t Want Kids has sent a message asking whether I’d consider meeting him in Indianapolis for dinner next Saturday night. I tell him I’d like to do that, but it’s going to have to be after the dust surrounding this stupid investigation settles. I reflect back on that simple comment and find myself admiring my restraint. It’s actually not like me to pass on an offer to meet someone unless he’s emitting mental-instability vibes, which this one isn’t (yet). But as eager as I may be to be in a relationship, my better judgment suggests that I’m not capable of handling more than one drama at a time, and the soap
I continue to pray that there’s a job offer somewhere in all this.
opera unfolding at work is trumping everything else right now.

Sunday, 11:30 a.m.
A bit of catch-up: A few months ago I closed on my old house without incident, the buyer having abandoned his dream of being a pig farmer or whatever crazy scheme he’d concocted, and now I’m comfortably settled in at my new bungalow and loving it. It’s a quarter of the size of my McMansion, but I don’t miss the space (or the cleaning, or the utility bills, or, especially, the ghost of my ex-husband, who, I should clarify, is alive and well). I’ve met a couple of the neighbors. Jeremy is a quirky single guy in his early 30s. The day I moved in, he fussed about the way rainwater runs across my yard and floods his property, as if I had anything to do with that problem. Two doors down, Tom, in his early 50s and divorced, is mellow and friendly. They both seem like nice guys, and already I sense that this neighborhood is more relaxed than my old one, where you were criminalized for leaving your trash cans on the curb (not really, but you get the point).

I think I’ll get along fine with Tom and Jeremy, but I’m not sure about the neighbors directly across the street.


Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.

Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 109


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