Dying’s easy, comedy is hard, went the old show biz saying.

Oh, yeah? Francesca challenged. Obviously the dumbass who coined that phrase never had to endure a blind date. Surely this was what it felt like to be a fly trapped in a spider’s web?

I broke open my limited edition of Chanel’s Gardenia perfume and trimmed the hedges of my secret garden…for this???

“Your pulse is racing, beautiful, and I don’t think it’s due to the curry shrimp you just tried.”

The man who had just delivered the contender for Corniest Line of The Year was without a doubt one of the most handsome men she had ever laid eyes on. Skin the color of toffee. Dark eyes that were at once piercing and inviting. A strong jaw framed by a hint of stubble. A smile that made you want to invest in Colgate. And lips that you just knew were made for kissing. Everywhere.

He was perfect.

“Sorry?” Francesca replied.

Until he opened his mouth.

“Your jugular,” he explained. “I can see it moving from here.” His perfect pearly whites in full effect, he leaned in closer. “Trust me when I tell you the vein in your neck isn’t the only thing throbbing.” Seconds later she felt his hand cover hers as he stealthily attempted to guide it beneath the table.

Oh, I know this motherfucker is not trying to put my hand on his dick!

With a smoothness even the most seasoned pickpocket would envy, she extracted her hand from his. Francesca could only smile as she dug the perfectly manicured nails of her free hand into the plush leather of her chair. It was either that or grit her teeth, and after having dropped over three grand on two porcelain crowns, she’d walk over hot coals before that would happen. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that fine-ass Ashton Kutcher was lurking close by somewhere, just waiting to come charging up to her table and yelling, “You’ve been punk’d!” That had to be it, right? Because there was no way the date could really be going this badly.

Just breathe. Find your core.

But the more she tried to tap into her “center,” or whatever the hell it was she was supposed to be focusing on in her yoga classes, the only thing she could envision was a tap to the center of a certain someone’s forehead.

“Come again?” Francesca nearly dropped the scorching-hot Marcel-handled curling iron.

“You heard me, heifa.” Khandi gave a slight nod of her head, the smile on her MAC plum-painted lips one of pure confidence. “If I’m lyin’, Superhoover’s teaching Sunday School!”

“It’s Superhead,” Francesca corrected, laughing so hard she had to excuse her client. When Khandi was like this, Francesca knew there was no putting the proverbial genie back in the bottle. She quickly motioned for her shampoo girl to take over her client’s hair then proceeded to give her undivided attention to her budding matchmaker of a friend.

As only Khandi could, she flopped her nearly 6’ frame into the empty stylist’s chair nearby, managing to look commanding, confident, sexy, and approachable, all at once. Crossing one lithe, toned mahogany leg over the other she expertly eyed her pomegranate bejeweled Jimmy Choos. Oh, hell no! That was not a scuff mark she saw on the corner of the ridiculously priced shoe’s toe? She seriously hoped for the sake of her baby sister Khira’s well-being, the fashion-obsessed 17 year-old had not taken her stilettos for a stroll. The girl had feet the size of a yacht.

“Hello? Earth to Khandi?? You were saying?”

“Huh?”

“Get your mind off that mortgage payment masquerading as a damn shoe you managed to squeeze your size 12s into—”

“I wear a 10 ½, bitch,” Khandi interrupted.

“Inside of you, yeah, trick,” Francesca smirked.

“At least I’ve had a taste of dick…”

“And a swirl, and a slurp and a swallow…”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you ride it, boo…”

“That’s ‘try it,’ slut.”

“I have, twin. Have you?” In triumph, Khandi arched a perfectly razored brow.

“Know…know what, Khandi?” Francesca sputtered, her finger jabbing the air in frustration. “Fuck you!” she laughed.

“Why, my man did just that last night,” Khandi wriggled her brows. “And quite well, spank you very much!”

“And who’s the fuck-y, I mean, lucky man this month?” This time, it was Francesca whose brow arched but there was consternation rather than triumph in her gaze.

Khandi knew that look; that Francesca only called her out because she loved her, but Khandi was in no mood for where the conversation would quickly head. “Truce!” she sang out, hands raised in mock self-defense. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll stop riding you about the cobwebs in your pussy…”

“And I’ll get off your back about the revolving door installed in yours…”

“Fair enough,” they nodded in unison.

There was no awkward silence between the two women. Both were aware of their issues and each accepted the other “as is.” They had decided long ago that while they would always challenge each other neither would try and change the other.

“Now, what say you give me the 411 on Brother McDreamy, huh?” Francesca grinned.

“You are so nasty,” Francesca groaned. Licking her fingers as she finished off the remainder of her jerk ox tails, she paused then cast a curious glance Khandi’s way. “I don’t see a collar on your neck… But I know you keep an extra pair of panties in your glove compartment. Did you need ‘em?”

“Nah.” Khandi shook her head, sending the custom weave dancing about her Prada-clad shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong. Brother is F-I-O-N-E. And can dress his ass off. I believe the folks at GQ would toss around words like ‘impeccable’ and ‘exquisite’? No, wait. My bad. That would be the tailored suit the good doctor had on. If I was gonna need to change my drawers? That would be the reason why, boo.”

“So…you’re saying he’s not your type?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How come?”

Khandi sighed then gave a sad smile. “I’m not looking to meet Mr. Right, boo, remember? That’s your thing.” She added wryly, “I’m all about Mr. Right Now.” The mood having passed she shrugged. “Besides, even though I bet he’d be a good time in bed, I get the feeling he’s the kind that wants you to stick around after. And you know that just ain’t my thing…”

“So you really aren’t interested?”

Though she tried desperately to prevent it, Francesca couldn’t keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. It wasn’t like she couldn’t get a man; that the best she could do was Khandi’s rejects. Please. No one had to tell Francesca she was a good-looking woman, that she was ‘fine as frog’s hair’ as the old men in the barber shop would say, and smart, and funny. All this she knew. Add to that the fact that at 40 she was a successful entrepreneur and homeowner—with no kids. Fuck, if that didn’t make her a hell of a catch, then in her opinion she didn’t know what it took to seal the deal.

And while Francesca was just as accomplished as her friend in the professional arena – though granted she didn’t pull down the mid- six-figure salary Khandi did as a junior partner at the investment firm where she worked – she did not possess the supreme confidence Khandi had when dealing with men. Especially when it came to the whole “mating dance,” as Khandi loved to call it. As a result she tended to avoid dating the way a sista with a fresh relaxer avoided the rain.

But still, as transitory as the men in Khandi’s life tended to be, Francesca had to admit the woman had amazing taste in men. So if she said this brother was the real deal…

“So…what, were the white girls built like linebackers or something? They look like Fiona from Schreck? He didn’t try and Mack on any of them?”

“Not. A. One. I’m telling you, Angeline Jolie could’ve walked up in that office and she would have left one disappointed woman.” Khandi laughed. “She’d have gone home and fucked Brad Pitt’s brains out and tried not to wake up Zanzibar and Silo as she called out the good doctor’s name the entire time!”

“It’s Zahara and Shiloh, bitch,” Francesca laughed. Khandi could quote you figures at the drop of a hat and not miss a number. But ask her to get a name right… ‘Well, I’ll be damned. You’re not shittin’ me. The eighth wonder of the world,” Francesca marveled, shaking her head.

“Uh-huh. A brother who ain’t all about the blondness. The Black Man’s Kryptonite don’t have no effect on him!” Khandi cackled. “Buffy the Black Man Slayer done met her match!”

High-fiving Khandi as she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, Francesca froze. “He’s not gay is he?” she scowled, her almond-shaped brown eyes practically narrowed to slits.

“Ho, sit down!” Khandi playfully shoved Francesca. “Only interest I have in a gay man is his taste in shoes. Don’t insult me by insinuating I’d be sizing up a booty bandit,” she scoffed.

“Khandi!”

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled. “Sorry. I’d never size up a ho-mo-sexual,” she corrected. “There, better?” she offered. “Just know this, Frankie, baby, if I’m recommending a man to you, boo, I’m giving you the Good Housekeeping fucking seal of approval, okay? And you can interpret that any way you wanna,” she grinned. “Besides, you my gurl,” she winked. “I wouldn’t play you.”

Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, the shapely stylist was truly regretting having worn her outfit of choice. It seemed her magenta halter-style bandage dress was fitting just a wee bit tight in the midsection. But that wasn’t what was giving her fits; either she’d snagged the wrong sized silk thong from the display of her favorite lingerie store, or her ass had gained weight! She refused to believe it was the latter. True, she had been indulging in the Godiva chocolate a bit over the past month, but she’d wager her entire collection of Chis the smorgasbord she was going to pass up tonight would more than make up for it.

She had Doo-Doo Brown to thank for that. There was no way in hell she could even entertain eating with the specifics of the good doctor’s proctology tutorial still fresh in her mind. And she swore if he made a fist and stuck his index finger inside one more time, she was going to grab her nearby salad fork and go straight up Hannibal Lecter on him.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind a tiny voice reminded Francesca of two things: 1) The Friday night didn’t have to be a total waste. If she left now, she could make it home in time to catch the start of the Law & Order marathon. 2) The next time she saw her, make sure to rip that Jimmy Choo stiletto off Khandi’s foot.

And beat that bitch down.