When Johannes Brahms' Liebslieder Waltzes used to play, a mellow mood would set in, and people would be lost in the music.
Now however, all single people feel that their stomachs have mutated and will soon leave their body. It's sound has become like a siren signaling that the next matchmaking draft is here.
It is the year 2050. The birth rate which had declined to a low of .2% is now slowly (and reluctantly) creeping up. People had become so immersed in their phones that humans held no interest for them. Dating was so time consuming, and marriage was too expensive. The all-powerful single generation enjoyed things their way for twenty years before the government decided that they'll use the taxes we pay to interfere in our private lives.
A ministry called matchmaking was setup. Although they were nowhere close to busybody mothers and grandmothers they had 2 things on their side - data and power. Ministry of Matchmaking or MMM was the result of a law which stated that all single people above 30 will be "encouraged" to mate with a suitable partner. A supercomputer was installed to calculate your perfect match through carefully constructed algorithms.
I turned 30 a week ago. A sigh escapes me as I look at the ministry representatives. They're here.
They take us to an innocuous looking building. It is a sleek, modern structure of chrome and glass. In my wildest dreams, I always imagined a cathedral like place with ivy creeping over it and overwhelmed with ugly gargoyles.
Speaking of gargoyles, the ministry representative, a short man with copious wrinkles and watery eyes walked up to me with a tablet. He scanned my face and jerked his head to the left and muttered
"Room no.7."
Ugh it felt like I was going for a health check-up.
The butterflies in my stomach had learnt to dance the conga and were displaying their skill enthusiastically.
I could run away but I literally run like a girl. I'm sure the old man could also catch up to me.
There is a side of me which was the bane of my parents', teachers’, and friends’ existence. Impetuosity in the wrong situations. In the 3 seconds that I was standing outside room no. 7, I decided to be less nervous and just have fun. I’m going to make this man give up on me.
Plastering what I hoped was a hysterical expression I entered the room and flew into the arms of the sole occupant.
With utter shamelessness I looked up at his face. I felt as if I had been wacked with an ancient club as I looked at the most handsome face I'd seen.
Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!
Someone once said that deep down we're all superficial. I couldn't believe my luck. This man was way out of my league. Wait, what if he was an idiot or had an awful voice.
"Um are you okay?" his husky voice said with genuine concern.
Damn it! It looks like I'm getting married