Chapter Text
Mike pushes a hand through his hair. This waiting area is too air-conditioned, and goosebumps pebble his arms. He’s surrounded by brochures, bamboo screens, white furniture, gently trickling fountains, glossy magazines, complimentary snacks, and orchids potted in marbles. The receptionist lit a stick of incense before she stepped away, assuring him that it was completely synthetic, of course, completely harmless, no smoke residue whatsoever. A hidden speaker is playing soft, resonant spa-like music.
He doesn’t want to do this. He never wanted to do this. He’s twenty three, forchristsake. His five year plan included withdrawing his savings, packing up his shit and hightailing it across the country to somewhere where he wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit. He’d work some shitty job in any town in America, he’d live in any studio apartment, freelance write in his spare time. Hell, he’d be a waiter, or a repairman, or he’d work in goddamn retail, just as long as he could have his own life. No more being a pawn. No more suit jackets and uncomfortable mandatory handshakes. No more big smiles for photographers. No more putting on appearances for the press, no more falling in line for the sake of looking like a big happy family. No more playing nice with his father, or his father’s political allies, or their allies, or their allies. He’d give up every cent of his parents’ money. He already graduated college, it’s too late for them to renege on tuition. They can take away the car he never really wanted anyway. They can threaten and coax and gnash their teeth. He doesn’t care. He’s had enough of this life. He’s out.
At least, that was the plan. And he was well on his way to cutting ties, ripping himself loose from anything that might tie him down here, like an animal gnawing off its own limb to survive. He graduated college on his parents’ dime, with the English major they never approved of and the Business minor he never wanted. He’s been slowly but surely severing his financial ties to them. Paying back the loan he owed to his mother. In secret, opening his own checking and savings accounts. Doing his research. He was even starting to look into prices of moving vans.
And now this.
It’s genius, really, on his parents’ part. They must have seen him starting to wriggle free. And what better way to firmly reaffix him to the family, while providing free positive publicity for his father’s campaign at the same time?
Mike taps the stylus on the tablet in his hands. He hasn’t even turned it on yet.
He can’t do this.
Isn’t it too early to be getting married? Although, he supposes, it’s not technically a marriage. It’s a Match.
He should have known this was coming; he doesn’t know why it blindsided him so much. Of course his father would want him to do this. Of course his father would make him do this. Won’t it look so good for the family? For the campaign? Sure, crowds rally now and again to protest the business of making Matches. They yell about how it’s unethical and hold up signs with slogans such as love isn’t synthetic! and no mortal should play God! And if Mike wasn’t the son of the politician most vocally in favor of this business, he’d be in those crowds. He hates the idea of Matches. He’s never been comfortable with it, ever since his father’s ring of politicians started supporting the industry.
But who is he kidding? Since when has he had any kind of choice about his life? They even drove with him to the facility. Perfect Match Inc., as the gates proudly announced in curling script. Smiling and nodding and making a lot of meaningful eye contact as they handed over their credit card to front the exorbitant price. They even stuck around for the “showcase,” which was sickening enough in and of itself. The widely-smiling receptionist led them back into a show room, where mildly bored-looking Perfect Match “employees” lined up and posed at the receptionist’s prompting. ( Of course, she said repeatedly, These are only examples of the Match you could create. Your choices are infinite - tailored completely to your taste.)
That’s the worst part about it - how customizable the whole thing is. Not just physical features, but nearly everything in their brain, as well. Personality traits. Skills. Knowledge. Interests.
(You can upload nearly anything, the receptionist chirped. She was extra chirpy. Mike wondered if she recognized his father, and was trying to give above-and-beyond customer service to impress one of the main sponsors and supporters of her business. Say you want a cat person who plays billiards on the weekends. We’ll program those skills and interests directly into their brain as they develop, courtesy of our patented neuro technology. )
The receptionist showed off the “models” as if she was the scientist that grew them from test tubes herself. The cheerful and quirky Manic Pixie Dream Girl with green hair. The intelligent and sophisticated pinup with perfect ‘50s waves. The coarse, insouciant Cool Girl with minimal makeup and a sports jersey. The sweet housewife with perfect skin and a perfume locket around her neck. The Party Girl, bouncy blonde waves and big breasts. All women, of course. Because Mike’s parents were very specific: his new Match will be a wife. Got to uphold that good old fashioned American tradition.
And inwardly, Mike cringed. He doesn’t want that; he doesn’t want to force someone to be what he wants, to create someone according to his whims. He’s never thought it was right, despite his father’s politics. And, sure, he likes girls okay. But he’s never been jazzed about the idea of a wife. He always pictured himself ending up with a guy, if ever he was to marry, if only to avoid ending up like his parents.
But he doesn’t really have that choice anymore.
Or -
Wait.
Wait.
Mike’s heart starts thumping. He finally turned on the tablet, facing the prospect of filling out the questionnaire with the air of one facing the gallows, and his eyes froze on the first question.
Would you like your Match to be male, female, nonbinary, other, or no preference? Please specify if other.
He thought for sure his parents would have already locked that choice down before he even got there. Maybe he’s not quite as trapped as he thought.
Heart in his throat, he quickly marks in male.
And immediately, he’s stymied again. How can he just pencil in this person’s entire personality, their whole existence? It doesn’t seem right. Selecting the “randomize” option a lot doesn’t seem like a smart idea either - who knows what kind of mess would result.
But he can’t walk out. His parents made it very clear that he’s going through with this whether he likes it or not.
He hesitates.
He paces.
He calls his big sister.
Mike has a plan.
While Nancy sits beside him, watching over his shoulder, he starts in on the questionnaire. He fills in what he finds most important, first, with the goal of giving this person the best chance at freedom and individuality that he can. Going against the grain of what rich powerful people usually want, ordering spouses like this - sweet, docile, down for anything, athletic, supermodel gorgeous, must have amazing cooking and cleaning abilities, etc., etc. Barf.
With a surge of anger, Mike punches in as many “non-traditional” traits as he can. Curiosity, rebelliousness, intelligence, bravery, creativity, intuitiveness. He hopes that they’ll encourage - or at least allow - this Match to make their own decisions and be their own person. He gives them artistic skill so that they’ll be able to express themself. Kindness and empathy, he feels, are necessary for all people to have. Willingness to fight - he doesn’t want his Match to be docile or unnaturally agreeable, to him or anyone else. Playfulness. He doesn’t just want this person to exist to be his romantic partner, available at his beck and call for kisses or sex or whatever else - he wants them to be able to play around with him, laugh, tease, joke. He wants them to be able to see him as a friend.
At Nancy’s suggestion, he also makes sure to specify that they should be encouraged to seek out new interests of their own - learn and grow and change. He gives them a thirst for knowledge - an interest in reading. And then, just to spite the mountain of suggestions in the margins (What kind of music does your Match enjoy? Popular choices include classical, New Age, and acoustic. What skills should your Match already have? You may want to consider skills such as homemaking, social networking, dancing, baking, or entertaining.), he adds things like favorite movie genres: horror, thriller, sci fi; favorite music genres: indie rock, grunge, classic rock, alternative, soft punk. Under miscellaneous skills, Mike includes things like critical thinking, self defense, wilderness survival, and street smarts - he wants his Match to be okay if they get into trouble
And then, with approximately ten percent of the questionnaire done, he hands the rest over to Nancy.
He doesn’t want to design someone to his own preferences. He won’t, he can’t. But he can’t just leave it to chance, either - that seems equally cruel. So someone has to do this, and there’s no one he would trust to do it for him other than his sister.
Nancy frowns over the tablet, a headache forming just behind her nasal cavities.
Of course their parents would do this. Of course. Legally sign Mike up for this, use their lawyers and their money to back him into a corner, give him no choice. It would be just perfect for Ted Wheeler if his only son was seen out and about with his brand-shiny-new Match wife, superhumanly perfect and smiling prettily. Wouldn’t that just drive home the point? What better way to prove to the public that Matches are good - so long as you can afford one - than for the son of a respectable politician to make and marry one?
Except, that’s not what’s going to happen.
Not exactly.
Nancy didn’t exactly want to spend several hours of her Saturday like this, but if there’s any way to salvage her little brother’s happiness, she’ll take it.
Nancy is the one that decides the height (two inches shorter than Mike), the hair color (chestnut-brown, because she knows how Mike loves brunettes, and they’ll look good next to each other - not the same, but complimentary, a matching set), the skin tone (vaguely tanned). She’s the one that decides that he should have a somewhat dark sense of humor, that he should be an introvert (to balance out Mike’s extrovertedness), socially quiet (again, to balance out Mike) but sharp-tongued when he does speak, and mischievous. She also decides that this Match should be gentle - she’s seen enough of their parents’ acidity that she wants none of that for Mike.
She gives him some flaws. Stubborn independence, occasional moodiness, restlessness, the proclivity to simmer (versus outbursts like Mike’s), a tendency to fidget, a tendency to be defensive. Mike did say he wanted a real person, after all.
She gives him some complimentary attributes to Mike - Mike’s head is constantly in the clouds, so Nancy decides his Match should alert, aware of his surroundings - suspicious, almost. Mike is expressive and demonstrative, so she makes his Match a little more restrained and secretive. She knows Mike needs to exercise more, so she gives the Match an interest in jogging, hoping he’ll drag Mike along. She also knows Mike could use some more affection in his life, so she makes sure his Match is affectionate - not so much in public, and not with just anyone, but with the people he cares about. Close friends. His partner. Family. He likes giving loved ones hugs and petting their hair, as well as things like hand-holding and affectionate or reassuring touches. She makes him protective of Mike, because Mike needs someone looking out for him. She gives him some interests that Mike does have (nerd stuff like D&D, fantasy, science fiction, movies, etc.) as well as some interests of his own that she generates at random (space and space exploration, X-Men, road trips).
And so it goes. Half the time, Nancy hits randomize until she hits on something that sounds right.
Career path: TBD, but in a creative direction. No way Mike’s partner is going into business.
Goals and desires: TBD.
Fashion sense: a little bit grunge, she decides, just to spite their parents. A little bit retro. Casual, comfortable. A far cry from the put-together business-formal/business-casual look that their parents encourage in the family.
She randomizes the fears. Total darkness. Being stalked. Having a deep secret found out. Losing a loved one. Loss of control. Wasps.
She’s been saving the physical appearance for last. She mulls it over for a good long while before filling in a mix of features that she knows Mike likes (brunette hair, hazel eyes, slightly smaller build than him), and features that she thinks fits this person’s personality. A slightly more ‘90s haircut, to match his music taste (at least, no buzz cut, no short business-like hair). Long artist’s fingers. A face of average attractiveness which, after messing around with the projections a little, turns out both soft and sharp at once. An intriguing contradiction that Nancy decides she likes - it’s not immediately stunning, it won’t turn heads, but it makes you want to look twice. Lean cheeks, a soft jawline - not weak, but not strong and square, either. Long eyelashes. A very slightly hooked nose. Full brows. She goes back and gives his chestnut hair a little bit of wave, a slight tendency towards messiness. Slim but sturdy shoulders. She randomly generates the “blemishes” category and ends up with two moles just off-center of his Adam's apple, another one on his shoulder blade, and a finger-length burn scar on his side. And as a final touch, she decides that he should have glasses. She doesn’t think Mike expects that, and he wanted to be surprised.
What should your Match call you, other than your name? (Popular choices include baby, sweetheart, dear, honey, Sir / Ma’am, boo, etc. Nancy taps the stylus on the tablet for a moment before filling in a few options - a sweet one, one that Mike will laugh at, and a teasing one. Love, bug, and dork.
Last is the name. She randomly generates this, too - although she puts in a few constraints and gives it several whirls, rejecting Eugene and Michael and Chad before she lands on William.
And that’s that. She hands the clipboard back to Mike and he turns it in to the front desk, calls his parents, and Nancy gets the hell outta dodge before they show up. Before she leaves, she hears some of the receptionist’s chattering. Telling Mike all about how the wait time will be six months - three for the Match to grow to adult maturity in a test tube, and then three months of testing, making sure his brain and body work properly. Socialization, classes. Letting him adjust to the harsh realities of existence.
“Congratulations on your new Match,” the receptionist enthuses just as Nancy steps out the door. “The love of your life is coming so soon.”
Will people-watches.
There’s not much else to do in the bunk room.
The other Matches around him talk and laugh and gossip. Clothes are optional and privacy is nil in here; many Matches walk around unclothed as they get ready to go take a shower or go to bed.
Will himself is changing out of his day clothes and into pajamas, and as he changes, he pauses. One wall of the bunks is a full-length mirror, which Will has long suspected is one-way. It seems a little redundant, considering the security cameras set up to keep an eye on them day and night. But, he supposes, you can’t be too careful when you have at least five million dollars worth of company assets gathered together in one room.
Five million. He did the calculation weeks ago, though he’s not sure if it’s exactly accurate. He only got a quick glimpse of that paperwork before they found him nosing around where he wasn’t supposed to be. But, with approximately two dozen of them in the facility at any one time... That should be about right.
I could probably sell my kidney and never have to work a day in my life, he thinks, and smirks at the thought. Then frowns. He’ll probably never have a job anyway.
He glances at the mirror again as he dresses.
Many Matches have exaggerated features or supermodel beauty. Sharply defined muscles; six-packs; supernatural allure; unnaturally large penises or breasts; ribs showing, or spindly little limbs, not an ounce of fat on them; or lush, swooping curves. Improbable hair - deep cherry red, or wildly curly and platinum-blonde, or very, very long. One Match in his current group has pointed elf ears; another has slightly pointy canines, like a vampire.
And then here’s Will, looking down at himself - average, for all he can tell. Not particularly muscled, but not spindly-skinny, either - he can tell he’s built to run, but his belly is soft with a thin layer of fat, not firm with muscle. He doesn’t have an improbably sized dick, like some of the other male Matches in the room, or interesting hair, or even a very attractive face. He looks pretty plain to his own eyes - no action-hero square jaw, no sexy-gruff beard, no high cheekbones and pillowy lips, no huge eyes or perfectly proportioned magazine face. In fact, he has glasses. Sometimes. Not right now, because they were hurting the bridge of his nose and he left them at the foot of his bed. Apparently he’s allowed to wear contacts, too, at his discretion, but he hasn’t quite gotten used to sticking something in his eyeball yet - so he sticks with glasses.
Some of the other people in the room have glasses, too, but most of them are the cute, quirky girls with pink hair, or the quietly assured, tall, young-professor looking types.
To be frank, Will is a little worried. He’s been worried pretty much since day one, and as the weeks and months go by, it only gets worse. Did something go wrong with him? Was he supposed to be taller? Stronger? Prettier, daintier? Or more rugged maybe, more handsome? Was he a fluke? They’d tell him if something went wrong, right? What if Will’s partner sees him and turns to a handler in surprise, saying, “I think there’s been a mistake”? What then? Will he be sent out onto the street to make his own way, or will he be chucked back into a test tube, dissolved into his constituent parts again so they can use his proteins to build someone better?
His appearance isn’t all that worries Will. He’s been a little taken aback by his partner’s other requests - specifically, how they differ from his peers’, and how the employees of Perfect Match seem a little befuddled by it, too.
He argues more with his handlers - that’s one of the first things he noticed, especially since it seems like he’s one of the only Matches that does it. He disagrees with them often, when it seems like most of his peers just go along with whatever’s said or done. When handlers start to help him disrobe to do a medical check-up, he jerks away and snaps, “I can do it myself, thanks.” He pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong, and once got in trouble once for sneaking into an office and flipping through some files because the door was unlocked and they were out in the open. In one of his classes, a lecturer was talking about the economy, teaching them about financial responsibility. Will was the one that raised his hand, interrupting. It was a simple question. He just asked what kind of steps have been made to fix the obvious and cruel difference in financial statuses - and all he received in response was a flabbergasted glare. The lecturer stuttered and gestured and eventually spat out something vague and placating, and Will spent the rest of the class fuming. It’s not fair. This world he was just dropped into is so biased and toxic. He knows. He knows about the world, they all do. It’s part of their general background knowledge. He knows about pollution and world hunger. And these people are just acting like it’s okay because they’re rich and they can afford pretty distractions like him?
One day, after arguing with an exasperated handler because he skipped a class to hide and draw, one of his peers looked at him with big, thoughtful, glittering-blue eyes. “You know,” she said, “Your partner must like a challenge.”
“What do you mean?” he ventured, distrustful, and she shrugged muscled shoulders, and brushed back a glossy waterfall of raven-black hair.
“Well, you’re so uppity,” she said matter-of-factly. “Contentious. Your partner probably wants you to put up a fight. It’s fun for some people.”
Will stewed over this for days, more worried still. Is he contentious? Does he want to fight with his partner? He doesn’t think so. He just wishes these people would give him space to breathe every once in a while. Why did his partner make him the way he is? Average-looking; not keen on socializing in large groups; drawn to an empty canvas or a thick book; observant, alert, hackles always half-raised. He knows basic self defense and wilderness survival, he knows how to quietly observe people, he knows how to sketch a portrait or a perspective piece. He likes the quiet and the fresh, damp, bracing air of a morning run. He likes the creeping thrill of a horror movie, especially late at night when he’s supposed to be getting a full eight hours of sleep (“beauty sleep,” as some of the handlers cheerfully call it).
Why? What use is he, when so many other Matches are skilled chefs and interior designers, dancers and singers and makeup artists?
And yet, worried as he is, he can’t wait to meet his partner. Maybe that’s just part of being a Match, something pre-wired in his brain that he can’t get past. Or maybe it’s the curiosity that’s slowly burning a hole through his stomach, turning to anxiousness and impatience. Who is this person that could have had any kind of partner imaginable - and yet didn’t want a beautiful, business-smart wife, or a strong, handsome, sociable husband? Why didn’t they want somebody like Faun, the tall, stately, androgynous modern dancer with aspirations of becoming a travel agent? Or Joel, the lumberjack-looking man who can’t wait to meet his partner’s children and take them all hiking? Or Crystal, the mildly terrifying chemist who already knows that she and her new partner are going to pioneer a flavor-science-based chain restaurant? Why did Michael B. Wheeler want someone like Will - a little short, but not enough for it to be cute; a little sullen, a little bit of a geek, a little wary of pitch-black rooms; a little bit fond of sunny skies and headphones and butterscotch hard candies? With no real interest in wearing suit jackets or eyeliner, no skills in cooking except for the basics class they all took, no amazing knowledge of chemistry or history? Why Will ?
Michael Benjamin Wheeler.
Michael.
Mike.
Will’s partner didn’t sign the paperwork Mike, he signed it Michael, with a practiced, I-sign-my-name-all-the-time scrawl, barely legible. But Will calls him Mike, in his head. It’s like a secret. Like something against the rules - and maybe it is. Maybe they’re only supposed to call their partners what they were told to.
He knows a little about Mike. All the Matches know a little about their partners - like their other knowledge and skills, it’s uploaded into their brains when they’re made. When a partner fills out an order form for a Match, there’s an optional extra page they can fill out. A sort of get to know me page. Will has seen Mike’s page. He’s traced the round letters with the pad of a finger, trying to picture the person that wrote them. The form is mostly full of trivial, inconsequential information. Name, gender, occupation. Basic interests, a handful of favorites. Tell your new Match a little about yourself! What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite vacation spot?
If they really wanted to get to know their partner, Will thought when he first got to see that form, they’d ask things like, what’s your greatest fear? or what kind of scenarios do you daydream about while you wait to fall asleep? or what do you want from me, really?
But still, he commits the shallow stuff to heart. He can’t help it. He learns these small things about this person, and he tries to summon up the face and mind behind the handwriting. He sketches, sometimes, taking stabs in the dark at what Michael Wheeler might look like. And he remembers the trivia. Mike’s favorite color is blue. He’s a night owl. He likes playing Dungeons and Dragons, which Will had to look up on the Net late one night when he was hiding a stolen tablet under his blankets, because Dungeons and Dragons was not part of the general world knowledge uploaded to his brain. Mike’s favorite genre is fantasy. His favorite type of weather is rain. His favorite movie theater candy is Junior Mints. He wants to learn guitar but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.
What do you look for in a partner?
Curiously, that line has been left blank.
Somewhat troubling.
Still, Will just wants to hurry up and meet him already. He’s tired of being in his facility, and he’s tired of the twice-weekly checkups and the insipid classes and the bunks and showers he shares with the rest of the Matches. He’s tired of walking around in the same circles every day, just worrying and wondering. He wants to get on with his life - whatever it may be. He just wants to be anywhere but here.
And moreover, he wants to see his partner. He wants to look into Michael Wheeler’s eyes - love, bug, dork, Mike - and see acceptance in them, see that Will really wasn’t all a big mistake. He wants to get the hell out of this place and curl up with his partner in his new home, and press his lips to Mike’s, and find out how Mike likes to be touched. Does Mike like to be touched? Will doesn’t know. Some of the other Matches already have that knowledge pre-uploaded to their brains, but not Will. Maybe Mike doesn’t like sex; some people don’t.
He wants to know everything. Who is this person that’s supposed to be his partner, who requested Will specially? Why order a Match if he didn’t want somebody perfect? What does he think about all day? What does he do? What does he want to do? What is his life like? Does he like it? What does he like, beyond the basic checklist on the paperwork? What does he want from Will, if not an easygoing, easy-on-the eyes partner to cook and do business at his side and warm his bed?
He wants to show Mike his favorite movies, which he’s discovered in the past couple months, and have Mike show him his own in return. Or walk around Mike’s hometown with him and see all the stores and streets and schoolyards where he grew up.
Will has childhood memories, too, but it’s not the same. They’re generic, shallow. The same copy-and-paste 10th birthday party that all the other Matches remember, the same funfetti frosting and ten little candles and crowd of vague, faceless friends chanting happy birthday to you. The same broken arm in middle school, the same neon-green cast with friends’ names scribbled in sharpie. The same generic high school with its cliques and cafeteria food and eraser-smell. The same childhood pet (a white dog, in Will’s case), the same family vacation to the beach with a family that didn’t really exist, the same memories of suburbia. Sprinklers rat-tat-tatting over wilting lawns, plastic pools in backyards, popsicles in the summer, snowmen in the winter. Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, Easter egg hunts. Neighborhood parks with monkey bars and swings and slides. Going to the movie theater, getting the flu. Getting chlorine up your nose and in his eyes at the local pool.
The details, for each Match, are partly randomized and partly fit to their personalities - none of them have the exact same set of memories with the exact same components. For Will, his fictional 10th birthday may have taken place at a park - for Faun it could have been in a grandparents’ house. Joel, with his easygoing demeanor, remembers falling and skinning his knee and going to the nurse’s office; Will remembers getting detention for skipping class. Faun remembers an unrequited crush on an older classmate; Will remembers going hot in the face watching movies featuring a particular handsome actor. Elana remembers parents that got along. Will has vague memories that feel like a divorce and moving house. But by-and-large, everyone’s memories are of the same stock. Your average middle-class suburban childhood - so, really, only average for a very narrow selection of Earth’s population. Will finds it a little funny. Why don’t any of them have memories of growing up in Ethiopia, or growing up in poverty, or being in and out of hospitals from health problems?
It’s happening. The Big Day has finally arrived.
Will is a mess of nerves, but he thinks he’s doing a fairly good job of keeping that under wraps. When he glimpses himself in the mirror, he’s gratified to see only a slight pinch of worry in the set of his brows, his mouth, in the sleepless bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look like the jittery wreck that he is inside.
All he can think is, What if he doesn’t like me?
He scrubs his skin raw in the shower, standing in the steam until a handler knocks on the door and tells him it’s time to shake a leg. They take the rest of his preparation into their own hands, buffing his hair dry and smearing cream into his skin. A bored hairdresser blow-dries and combs his hair with a round, bristly brush, pulling it away from his face, making him look handsomer and more professional than he really is. The outfit they offer him is simpler than he expected: dark, slim-fitting jeans and a button-down shirt. Last week, Elana’s new wife requested to meet her in a sparkling evening gown. Rumors circulate in the Match bunk room that sometimes a partner will request to have their Match meet them in nothing but lingerie.
He buttons the shirt all the way up, only for the stylist to tut and shake her head and brush his hands aside, unbuttoning the top few buttons again. “That looks better,” she proclaims. “Not so stuffy, yes?”
They try to close in on him with a powder brush, wheedling - just a little bit, just some blush, you’re so peaky - but he refuses. He’s already so afraid that he isn’t what Mike wanted; he’d rather just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with. He wants his partner to look at him, as he really is, and either accept or reject him. No more of this wondering, no more beating around the bush. So they eventually give in, sighing and frowning, and content themselves with dabbing the shine from his nose and forehead with a kleenex. They spritz him with an expensive-smelling cologne before he can protest, and with that, they’re shuffling him off to the Meeting Rooms.
The Meeting Rooms are decorated like fancy restaurants. Or the inside of a yacht. After all, this is where Perfect Match’s clients will lay eyes on their very expensive purchases for the first time; the company doubtless wants the atmosphere to be as pleasant and calm and luxurious as possible.
Warm, glossy wood paneling that almost seems to glow. Candles. Big windows that look out into the lush courtyard of the facility. Pots overflowing with ferns and flowers. Thick, soft carpet. One large leather couch - Will wonders, fleetingly, if it’s leather because they have to wipe it down after each first meeting, and quickly tries not to think about it. Instead he wanders around the room. He’s the first one in, and he’s alone; they told him Mike was still on his way. Will’s stomach is a tense, tight little knot. There’s a wine fridge in one corner, and a mirror in another. Will pauses in front of the mirror and resists the urge to mess with his hair. There’s a tray of fruit slices and chocolates on the coffee table in front of the couch, but Will feels like he’ll be sick if he puts anything in his mouth - and plus, he has the irrational fear that the moment he starts chewing something, the door will open and his mouth will be too full to say hello properly.
He sits down on the couch, then stands up again because he’s full of restless energy, then sits down because he doesn’t want to look twitchy. His knee bounces. He can tell he’s sweating under his shirt, and he tries to will himself to stop. He thinks of the saccharine “informational” videos that Matches all had to watch in class - glorified commercials, really. Onscreen, smiling Matches would rush into the arms of their partner, always perfectly complementary - a hipster with a hipster, an actor with a director, a businessman with a businesswoman, a tattooed thrill-seeker with a pierced adrenaline junkie. Happily matched couples would glide down ski slopes, drink champagne in first class, lounge in a bubble bath, light menorahs, jog together through well-lit city parks, kiss passionately on the balcony of some luxury hotel in Italy. All very well-dressed, well-to-do couples, no matter their lifestyle. But then again, Will supposes bitterly, you’d have to be rich to afford a product as expensive as him.
He wonders, with clenched teeth, what type of rich Mike is. Is he the yoga-on-the-garden-roof, hummus-and-tofu, clean-eating, health-nut, mountain-biking and spiritual-journey-vacations type of rich person? Or the type that has a big house in a wealthy suburb, with a long driveway and a wine cellar and at least one extra car in the garage - the type that thinks they’re middle-middle class because they have a mortgage, and tries to act like they’re just getting by like everyone else when in reality they have more money than ten average families? Or perhaps the party type? Throwing money away by the bucketful on unnecessarily expensive dinners and technology they don’t need? Or maybe the Ivy League, old money type? Obsessed with The Classics, stuffy, thinks they’ve somehow earned their wealth because they’ve never had to face any real consequences for having it?
He’s only making himself more tense, so he stands yet again and goes to look out the window, thinking about what he knows about Mike, trying to calm himself. Mike’s favorite color is blue. He’s a night owl. He likes playing D&D, which is a sort of long collaborative board game. His favorite genre is fantasy. His favorite type of weather is rain. His favorite movie theater candy is Junior Mints. He wants to learn guitar. He's human.
The door opens, and Will whirls.