A Hire Love. Candice Dow

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      After I changed from my stilettos into my loafers, I dodged to the subway to make my appointment on time. While I sat on the train, I took note of all the people without rings. It would be interesting to take a survey of how many people would be willing to go through an agency. When the train approached my stop, I daydreamed. Derrick’s voice yanked me from my seat and before I could rationalize, I stood in front of the building.

      Do I really have to stoop this low? As I debated the purpose of an agency, my cell phone rang. Mya shouted in my ear, “Go ahead, Fatima. Go in.”

      “How do you know that I’m not already inside?”

      “Because I know you.”

      After looking around to make sure no one recognized me, I grabbed the door. “Whatever. I’m already inside.”

      “No, you’re not. I can hear all the traffic on the street. You can’t fool me. I know you too well.”

      “All right, all right. I’m going in now.”

      “Okay. Call me as soon as you’re done.”

      Just as a matter of accuracy, I checked the directory for the suite. When I noticed only the initials BLA on the plate, I thought that was suspect. Why didn’t they want to publicize that they were the Black Love Agency?

      Before getting on the elevator, I took a deep breath. Inside the elevator, I took another deep breath. As the elevator went higher and higher, my reasons increased: You can’t be single forever. An occasional date to accompany you to professional engagements. A nice guy to take you out to dinner. And after a three-year drought, an occasional lay probably wouldn’t hurt either.

      I stood in front of the young receptionist and smiled. “Uh…”

      “Good evening. Do you have an appointment?”

      “Yes. My name is Fatima.” As I was about to state my last name, I felt like I was committing adultery. When I looked at the twenty-something black chick across from me, I wanted to beeline out of there. Most people who knew people knew Derrick Mayo. How could I use his last name at the damn Black Love Agency?

      “Fatima Barnes?” she asked.

      My eyes expanded and my smile stretched even wider, because Mya was clever enough to book the appointment using my maiden name. I felt pumped again.

      The receptionist handed me a clipboard with a stack of papers. “If you could just fill these out and give me your thousand-dollar deposit, we can get started.”

      Can’t I appraise the damn prospects before they want to take my money? I leaned onto her desk, “So, do you think it’s worth it?”

      She shrugged her shoulders. “A lot of people say it is. Many of our clients have gotten married.”

      “So, usually how many dates do most people go on before they find what they’re looking for?”

      “Well, we charge a thousand per month and you get unlimited dates. So, it’s hard for me to say. I mean most people stay with us on average three or four months.” Trying to whisper, she added, “You know, depending on their personality, some are with us longer.”

      “This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”

      Her smirk assured me that she thought I was lying. “Yeah, I understand.”

      “Do you have any tips?”

      She chuckled. “Only pick men who are new to the service.”

      “Thanks.” I checked out the nameplate on her desk. “Shakee-me-a. Did I pronounce it correctly?”

      “Yeah, most people get it wrong. That’s amazing.”

      Being that people often mispronounce my name, I know how important it is to get it right the first time. “Yeah, I hate when people say my name wrong.”

      She nodded. “I know. I blame my mother though.”

      I laughed and plopped into one of the chairs in the waiting area. “Uh-huh. Me too.”

      We giggled a bit about the name game before I began filling out the stack of papers. As I plowed through the pages, I became apprehensive. There were too many clauses. They’re not responsible if someone kills me. They will not refund for loss or damaged property. This is ludicrous. As I disputed everything on every page, I scribbled in my address, my name, my expectations, my signature, and damn it, I signed my check.

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