Love in the Time of Zombies by Lynn Messina Page A

sparks, and with a deep sigh, I reach for the flower vase and dump water on the smolder before the silk tablecloth catches fire. That was another one of Katya Useless’s tips: Don’t stint on the table dressing. Use your finest china, silver, and linens exactly as you would for an unzombified human male so that you don’t feel like dating a zombie is sloppy seconds. He might not notice the details, but you will.
    Now my grandmother’s damask tablecloth is entirely ruined—and not from the fire, either. No, it has oily bits of zombie flesh rubbed into its lovely pattern.
    Thanks, Katya, I think as I get down on my hands and knees to look under the couch for Twinkle Toes.
    Not there.
    Goddamn it.
    I lift the curtains, check the bathtub, and open the kitchen cabinets. Twinklie isn’t in any of her usual hiding spots, and what just moments before seemed extremely unlikely inches its way up to somewhat possible.
    â€œFucking hell,” I mutter as my eyes settle on the cover of Zombopolitan, its bright, bold, and simple teaser “You + Zombie = Bliss” mocking me from the coffee table.
    Stupid, clueless article. Clearly the writer has never dated a zombie in her entire life. Otherwise, she wouldn’t tell you to take out your favorite things. And that cover image! A zombie frolicking in the ocean surf with his girlfriend! That’s a complete fabrication by the art department. Everyone knows zombies don’t take direction. Even with the new behavioral-modification drugs that improve zombie brain function, you can’t get one to cradle a woman in his arms.
    Even if you did, his arms would likely fall off.
    I look under the bed, behind the door and in the dresser. As I pull apart my closet, I mentally compose my own list of tips for zombie-dating bliss:
    One: Ditch the fancy duds. When having a zombie over for dinner, use easy-to-clean aluminum chairs so you don’t get zombie guts on your furniture. Worried about comfort? Don’t be. Comfort is in the mind of the beholder and zombies don’t have minds.
    Two: Can the silver. All flatware—even seemingly harmless spoons—are deadly weapons in the uncoordinated grip of a zombie. Serve finger food.
    Three: Skip the mood lighting. Zombies love playing with fire. Literally. They think the flickering flame is actually a toy. If you must have a romantic atmosphere, use a flashlight.
    Four: Keep it simple. Zombies eat brains. Any brain. Any time. You don’t have to fancy them up with exotic spices. If you have an uncontrollable desire to Julia Child some toast points, invite your friends over for a girls’ night in.
    Five: Weed the garden. The putrescence released during decarboxylation wilts most flowers within an hour, so save those beautiful buds for a proper dinner party with your beautiful buds. If a centerpiece is an absolute must, arrange some dandelions in a clear plastic cup.
    Six: Ignore tips one through five. Why the fuck should you date a zombie? You’re a smart, funny, beautiful woman, not a mound of rotting flesh. Sure, there are only 344,923 or so healthy human males left on the planet, which makes them elusive and tricky to find. Many of them are movie stars or paid companions. But think about it: They’re human and they’re male. Without question, finding one is worth a little bit of effort. Maybe you’re intimidated by the relentlessly negative statistics fed to us by the media—like the one we always hear that says a woman is more likely to get hijacked by a terrorist, staked to a bamboo pole in the Heilongjiang Province of Inner Mongolia, and have her spleen eaten by a saber-toothed tiger than meet a man. Don’t be. That study used a restricted demographic, ignored several significant sociological developments, and severely overestimated the number of saber-toothed tigers in Inner Mongolia.
    Thoroughly frustrated, I slam the closet doors and march into the living room. Kaa is