She scrolls faster. I’ve never seen such a variety of man parts fly by. “Wow,” I say. “That’s quite a collection. How long did it take you to amass such a—”

“I didn’t take these! I haven’t seen even half of them in person. These were just what dudes sent me on Flirtville, with no messages or notes attached. I don’t get it.”

Ahh. Her comment yesterday about STDs reminds me she’s had a rough go of it recently. I want to turn the ship around for her.

“Hmm. Let’s pull up your Flirtville profile and see if we can figure it out,” I suggest.

She sits next to me, making our laptops neighbors. She logs in and tilts her screen so I can see her profile. In response to the question “Something my parents don’t know about me” she’s written, simply, “DTF.”

I think we’ve cracked the mystery.

“Oh God. I don’t even remember typing that,” she moans. “I must have been wasted. Anyway, that’s another reason I should cool it with the beverages.”

We both drink to that.

Bree deletes a letter and types a new one. “There. DTM. Down to marry. That should fix everything.”

“That . . . might work,” I say. Minimal bluff! “Or, we could cut our losses at Flirtville and start fresh at a different site. What do you think?”

She pushes her hair behind her ears, looking earnest and determined. “Start fresh.”

Twenty minutes later, we’ve synced our laptops to her Game, Set, Match account, and we’ve filled out her questionnaire with pithy remarks and a humorous but firm declaration that her account is a “dick-pic-free zone.”

With her input, I’ve presented Bree as an outgoing, free-spirited denizen of Hell’s Kitchen who enjoyed being single and playing the field but has realized she’s looking for something more significant now. She’s someone who loves classic action-adventure fantasy films, and walking tours of historical neighborhoods, especially haunted ones. (I love this because it presents a perfect opportunity for snuggling with her dates.) She works as a bookkeeper at a pediatrician’s office, where she’s also in charge of curating the kids’ waiting area with games, toys, DVDs, and a colorful fish tank.

We decide to leave out her affinity for fart jokes. I make note of it and categorize it as a Future Honesty.

Freelancer’s Handbook: A Future Honesty is not something to be ashamed of. Instead, think of it as a reward, a prize, even, bestowed upon a match after multiple successful dates. If deployed too early, it risks sabotaging the burgeoning relationship. Protect Future Honesties and save them only for those who prove worthy.

Having devoured our grilled cheese sandwiches and doused the jalapeño flames with more wine, we feast on goat cheese drizzled with maple syrup.