Mary June Brown lives and writes in California, where she and her husband are busy raising two incredibly energetic boys. She is a member of ‘B’ Street Writers in Marin County and her most recent work is forthcoming in Static Movement, Wheelhouse Magazine, and Boston Literary Magazine. Her blog is at maryjunebrown.wordpress.com.

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Liza joined the online revolution by signing up for a dating service. 

Since her divorce four years ago, she hadn’t dated. Her paralegal job and her friends seemed like enough until looking at babies in bright strollers made her eyes well up. 

Here she was, a divorcee with a job where the lawyers rushed by her with quick nods in exchange for her hearty greetings. Liza referred to herself as a divorcee, as in, “Well, men shy away from a divorcee. They worry I can’t go the distance.”  Her friend Marian would snap back, “Would you stop it? You were married for two minutes four years ago. Get over yourself.” 

Not two minutes, but close. They’d met at a Walk-a-Thon in June, married in July, and were sitting in the free legal aid office two weeks later, trying to understand the technical differences between annulment and divorce. She decided everyone was dead wrong: exercise isn’t good for you.

She thought if she hadn’t married (and failed), she would’ve had the confidence to continue with what her mother called “life goals.” She’d probably be working in some office with windows and green plants, married, mothering an adorable kid or two.

Marian again: “Stop moping. God, you’ve got your health. Lose 10 pounds and you’d have your looks, too. Get over it!” 

But Marian didn’t seem to understand how hard it was, meeting people. Her last date was a joke—a man she’d met on the Internet who described himself as “mature about relationships—what matters is what is on the inside!” and said he liked to relax, read alternative lit, and talk about philosophy. His self-description was code for a middle-aged couch potato who read Big Jugs (admitted with pride, as he eyed her chest). His idea of philosophy was exposing that man never walked on the moon—“people just want to delude themselves.” Afterwards, she went home and deleted her personal ad.

But, people insisted: “Here, email my brother’s friend,” or “Send my cousin your profile,” and “Hey! My co-worker wants to email you.” If there was ever any chemistry in email, it dissipated once face-to-face. 

So, Liza went to the office, and drank her Long Islands alone after work. 

At the bar yesterday, a man with thick, coal-black hair and dark smudges for eyes introduced himself. “Hey,” he said, “don’t you work at Barney & Stokes?”

“Yep.” She looked him over. No wedding band, no pale line where the wedding band would be. They talked, he ordered more drinks, this time red concoctions he called Sundowns. He asked if he could see her over the weekend. A breeze seemed to flutter through the air. “Sure, as long as exercise isn’t involved.”

“Okay.” 

That was easy, she thought.

He asked how to get in touch with her, and she said he’d have to call: she didn’t do computers, email, “that whole thing.”

“Yeah, me neither.” He touched her hand.

Bingo. 

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