Redshirts

e-mails sent to him, or so he claims, from associates in Sydney and Tokyo. At one point he goes to the bathroom without his phone; Samantha pops open the back and flips the battery in the compartment. Her date, enraged that his phone has inexplicably stopped working, leaves, barely stopping to ask Samantha if she minds splitting the bill before stalking off in search of a Verizon store.
    The second date is with a junior high English teacher from Glendale who is an aspiring screenwriter and who agreed to the date because Eleanor hinted that Samantha might still have connections at The Chronicles of the Intrepid, one of the shows she had been an extra on. When Samantha explains that she had only been an extra, and that was years ago, and she had gotten the gig through a casting director and not through personal connections, the teacher is silent for several minutes and then begs Samantha to read the script anyway and give him feedback. She does, silently, as dinner is served. It is terrible. Out of pity, Samantha lies.
    The third date is with a man so boring that Samantha literally cannot remember a thing about him by the time she gets back to her car.
    The fourth date is with a bisexual woman co-worker of Eleanor’s, whose gender Eleanor obfuscated by referring to her as “Chris.” Chris is cheerful enough when Samantha explains the situation, and the two have a perfectly nice dinner. After the dinner Samantha calls her sister and asks her what she was thinking. “Honey, it’s been so long since you had a relationship, I thought maybe you just weren’t telling me something,” Eleanor says.
    The fifth date is a creep. Samantha leaves before the entrée.
    The sixth date is with a man named Bryan who is polite and attentive and charming and decent looking and Samantha can tell he has absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. When Samantha says this to him, he laughs.
    “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”
    “It’s all right,” Samantha says. “But why did you agree to the date?”
    “You’ve met your sister, right?” Bryan says. “After five minutes it was easier just to say yes than to find excuses to say no. And she said you were really nice. She was right about that, by the way.”
    “Thank you,” Samantha says, and looks at him again silently for a few seconds. “You’re a widower,” she says, finally.
    “Ah,” Bryan says. “Eleanor told you.” He takes a sip of his wine.
    “No,” Samantha says. “I just guessed.”
    “Eleanor should have told you, then,” Bryan says. “I apologize that she didn’t.”
    “It’s not your fault,” Samantha says. “Eleanor didn’t mention to me that she had set me up on a date with a woman two weeks ago, so it’s easy to see how she might skip over you being widower.”
    They both laugh at this. “I think maybe you ought to fire your sister from matchmaking,” Bryan says.
    “How long has it been?” Samantha asks. “That you’ve been widowed, I mean.”
    Bryan nods to signal that he knows what she means. “Eighteen months,” he says. “It was a stroke. She was running a half-marathon and she stumbled and died at the hospital. The doctors told me the blood vessels in her brain had probably been thin her whole life and just took that moment to go. She was thirty-four.”
    “I’m sorry,” Samantha says.
    “So am I,” Bryan says, and takes another small drink from his wine. “A year after Jen died, friends started asking me if I was ready to date again. I can’t think of a reason to say no. Then I go on them and I realize I don’t want anything to do with them. No offense,” he says quickly. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
    “No offense taken,” Samantha says. “It must have been love.”
    “That’s the funny thing,” Bryan says, and suddenly he’s more animated than he’s been the entire evening and, Samantha suspects, more than he’s been for a long time. “It wasn’t love, not at first. Or it wasn’t for me. Jen always said that she knew I was going to be hers from the first time she saw me, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t even much like her when I met her.”
    “Why not?” Samantha asks.
    “She was pushy, ” Bryan says, smiling. “She didn’t mind telling you what she thought, whether you had asked for an opinion or not. I also didn’t think she was that attractive, to be entirely honest. She definitely wasn’t the sort of woman I thought was my type.”
    “But you came