Chapter 5: THE BLONDE, THE BAR, AND THE BRUTAL TRUTH
Friday came faster than I expected.
I spent Thursday in a cleaning frenzy, transforming my apartment from "box storage facility" to "almost professional office space." The living room now featured a card table I'd bought from a thrift store, two folding chairs that didn't quite match, and a floor lamp positioned to create what I hoped was a warm, trustworthy ambiance.
It looked like a therapy session from a low-budget film. But it was better than nothing.
Karen Mitchell—I'd gotten her full name from a follow-up text—arrived at three o'clock exactly. She was dressed business casual, like she'd come from work, and she carried herself with the slightly defensive posture of someone who wasn't sure if this was a good idea.
"So this is... cozy," she said, looking around.
"I'm in the startup phase."
"Clearly."
But she laughed when she said it, and the ice cracked.
I gestured to one of the folding chairs. She sat. I sat across from her at the card table, trying to project competence I didn't entirely feel.
"So, Karen. Tell me about yourself."
"That's very therapist."
"It's very matchmaker. I need to know who you are before I can figure out who you should be with."
She considered that. Nodded. And then she talked.
Twenty-seven years old. Marketing coordinator at a finance firm. Grew up in Connecticut, moved to the city five years ago. One serious relationship that had ended badly—he'd cheated, she'd found out through a mutual friend, the whole thing had been humiliating. Since then, two years of first dates that went nowhere and apps that made her feel like a product on a shelf.
She wanted something real. Something that felt like it was supposed to happen.
"Everyone says that," she admitted. "I know it sounds cliché. But I watch my parents—they've been married thirty years, they still look at each other like they're the only people in the room—and I want that. Not the fairy tale version. The real version."
Her string pulsed steadily the whole time she talked. Leading east. Brooklyn. Someone who fit what she was describing.
I focused on it, letting the system analyze.
[Client: Karen Mitchell]
[Primary String Destination: Brooklyn, Park Slope area]
[Target Individual: Male, late twenties to early thirties, estimated distance 4.2 miles]
[Compatibility Projection: 72%]
[Dealbreaker Scan: None detected]
[Timing Estimate: Connection possible within 2-6 weeks if facilitated]
Seventy-two percent. Not the 94.7% of Marshall and Lily, but solid. Real. The kind of match that could grow into something lasting.
"I think I can help you," I said.
She blinked. "That fast? You haven't even done... whatever it is you do."
"I've started. Tell me more about what you're looking for in a partner. Not the resume stuff—not job or height or whatever. The feeling stuff. What makes someone right for you?"
She thought about it. Really thought.
"Honest," she said finally. "I need someone who tells the truth even when it's hard. I can't do the games again. The pretending everything is fine when it's not."
I made a note. Real note, in a notebook I'd bought for exactly this purpose.
"What else?"
"Funny. But not trying to be funny all the time, you know? Like, naturally funny. Comfortable enough to be silly."
Another note.
"Someone who has their own thing. Their own passion. I don't want to be someone's whole world. I want to be an important part of it."
The session went on for nearly an hour. By the end, I had three pages of notes and a clear picture of Karen Mitchell: ambitious but not ruthless, romantic but not naïve, wounded but not broken.
And her string pointed to someone who, according to the system's vague projections, would match most of what she was looking for.
"What happens now?" she asked as we wrapped up.
"Now I do the work. I have a... network." I didn't. Not yet. "I'll reach out to some people, find matches that fit your profile. Within two weeks, I'll have at least one introduction ready."
"And if it doesn't work out?"
"Then we try again. My goal isn't to throw bodies at you until one sticks. It's to find someone who actually fits."
She smiled. The first unguarded smile I'd seen from her.
"That's refreshing. Every other matchmaker I looked into—not that I looked into many—they all talk about their 'extensive database' and 'compatibility algorithms.' You're the first one who sounds like an actual person."
"I try."
"So, um." She reached into her purse. "What do I owe you? For the consultation?"
I hadn't actually set prices. The business plan had suggested ranges, but I'd never nailed down specifics.
"Three hundred for the initial consultation and first match attempt," I said, picking a number that sounded professional but not exploitative.
Karen nodded like this was reasonable, pulled out cash, and counted three hundred dollars onto my card table.
The system notification appeared the moment the money left her hands.
[Income Received: $300]
[Financial Multiplier Active (Level 2 Bonus): x3]
[Total Deposited: $900]
[Current Balance: $9,147.83]
I kept my face completely neutral while my brain did cartwheels.
Three hundred became nine hundred. The system was tripling my business income. If I could get regular clients, if I could build something real here...
"Ethan?" Karen was looking at me. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just... making mental notes."
She stood, gathered her purse, and shook my hand. "Thank you. For not making me feel like a desperate spinster. I know that's a low bar, but you'd be surprised how many people limbo under it."
"I'll be in touch."
After she left, I sat alone in my makeshift office, staring at the three hundred dollars on the table.
First real client. First real money. First real step.
The system chimed.
[Quest: Make Your First Match — Progress Updated]
[Client: Karen Mitchell — Acquired]
[Next Step: Locate compatible partner. Initiate introduction.]
[Time Remaining: No deadline, but delayed completion reduces rewards.]
I pulled up a map of Brooklyn on my laptop. Park Slope. Approximately four miles east of here.
Tomorrow, I'd go scouting. Follow the invisible string to wherever it led. Find the person waiting at the other end.
Tonight, I'd celebrate the small victory.
My phone buzzed. Text from Ted.
"MacLaren's? Barney's planning something. Might need backup."
I looked at the card table, the folding chairs, the pretend office I'd built in twenty-four hours.
"On my way," I typed back.
Through the wall, I heard Marshall shout something about cheese again. Lily's response was muffled but sounded fond.
The strings of this building—Ted's tangled mess, Marshall and Lily's golden braid, Barney's obscured thread leading somewhere I couldn't see—pulsed in the edges of my vision.
I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.
MacLaren's nachos were calling.
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