Gregson was changing… as much as a man of fifty can change—with Chinese take-out habits, wet towels left on morning floors, and clothes piled near an unmade bed. He was having bachelorhood doubt.
Maybe, it was the revelation that counting on himself was getting old, and he didn’t like to do math.
Gregson needed to find a woman—the ultimate crime would be to marry a woman half his age who would give him sex in the morning and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Now—that’s division! A math teacher would be perfect. She could pay the bills, and keep his house in order. The danger was, she might keep him in order. But where was he going to find her?
The police bar was his first thought, but no… he had to be more creative than that. If you are a man, your mind goes to the same places, or only one place, but you try to shake your head free. Police women were too masculine—and if he made the wrong move—he might get arrested. No, he had too much in common with them, and opposites attract.
The shopping mall was his second thought, because he had a horrible sense of style, and he could ask any beautiful woman to help him pick-out his clothes, but he hated shopping… and this was a mystery to him that he didn’t care to solve. It took Gregson a month to wear something he had bought, and he usually started with his socks—and gradually moved to his underwear, undershirts, and then suit—but by then, it was out of style.
Gregson was out of ideas… He could call his buddy Murphy, but it would be awkward. Murphy wasn’t good with women. He had been married four times, and divorced five—that’s some math Gregson didn’t understand. Getting married was one thing, but staying married was a whole other matter, and then there was the problem of not going insane. If she was young, and had good health habits—maybe he could die a happy man, but planning for his future was like pretending to be God—everybody does it, and God laughs.