Every third Thursday at 8:30, Vicky and I share a bottle of Kinzmarauli and our unfailing disappointment with the Charlotte dating pool. Vicky, a beautiful skinny shiny wedding photographer has never been married and enjoys a sanguine view on the recently divorced. To her, my growing collection of closed files is a land of walks on the beach, rainbows and Tiffany rings, all turned into stone by a misguided witch. Every Thursday, by 9:15, Vicky tries to convert me.
“Your clients,” she starts again, “are rich and beautiful?”
“I have some of each.”
“Instead of destroying the sacred institution and bringing loneliness and despair into the world, you could…”
“Arrange that you have a date this weekend?”
“And didn’t you say that you divorced a handsome, kind and brilliant doctor called Kevin?”
“I divorced a doctor called Kevin.”
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