Page 9 of Love's a Script
“Not a very romantic way to talk about your dating life,” Chesa said.
“Well, this isn’t a very romantic undertaking.” That was nowhere more evident for Ruben than when he was completing a particular section of the intake forms that asked him to define his dream partner, to choose characteristics from a drop-down list like he was selecting toppings for a pizza. The coarseness of it nearly moved him to abandon everything, but he reminded himself that buttressing the feature was his priority.
“I think she’s here.” Chesa nodded in the direction of the entrance.
Ruben turned to see Mary, a sight of sophistication in a spotless cream coat, being directed his way by the sound engineer.
“I expect a full debrief afterward,” Chesa whispered as she left his side.
Ruben met Mary in the middle of the floor where she said hello with a terse smile. He thanked her for accommodating him by meeting at the studio and offered her something to drink from the station’s newly acquired Keurig machine, but she declined. Inside the conference room, he watched Mary silently unload the contents of her bag onto the table one by one. He’d expected some tension, but the antiseptic air between them was unbearable.
“I was looking at the add-on services on your website,” he began lightly. “Do people actually pay extra for a style consultant?”
“Yes,” she said. “Some want to look and feel their best when they’re about to meet a lot of romantic prospects. A style assessment is one way to do that.”
“You think I need one?” he asked in jest but pushed his chair away from the table to give her a full view.
Mary took a serious look from the coils on his head to his old Converse high-tops then said, “I’m not a style expert.”
“But you have an opinion.”
“I do.”
Ruben laughed when she didn’t elaborate. “That bad?”
“No, I’m just not able to give you useful feedback because, again, I’m not an expert.”
“How diplomatic,” he said, then worried the comment came off glib. If Mary thought so, she didn’t address it, starting the meeting without further preamble. She spoke quickly with what seemed like practiced inflections and gestures, and the hair framing her pretty face billowed whenever she spoke a word beginning with a plosive consonant.
“We will only have two check-in meetings,” she said while explaining his truncated matchmaking plan. “After your first date and before your last date. But you’ll provide written feedback on each date on the Hearts Collide app. It will help me refine your compatibility data.”
Compatibility data. It was easy to forget they were talking about human connection.
“Problem?” Mary asked.
“Nope. Taking it all in,” he said. “But tell me, how exactly do you calculate compatibility?”
“We have about ten guiding principles that we use to assess matches, but each matchmaker also uses their experience and their—for a lack of a better word—gut to pair people.”
Ruben nodded, pulling out the pen and notepad he’d brought along to jot down this revelation. The agency’s website and press coverage gave the impression that centrifuges and difficult computations were involved.
“I thought I wouldn’t be directly quoted in your feature,” Mary said.
He looked up and found her frowning. “And you won’t be,” he said. “These are my personal notes that I’ll use to talk more accurately about the agency.”
She still appeared untrusting, and he realized he had her ire but none of her confidence. It would affect his experience, and ultimately, the quality of his insights.
“Okay, can we be real?” he said, putting his pen down. “I know you think I’m a cynical smartass. I won’t deny the smartass part, but if we’re being technical, I’m a skeptic, not a cynic. I question almost everything, but not for the sake of being a contrarian. I’m okay with being proven wrong, and I have no problem changing my opinions after learning something new. It’s what makes me good at my job. So I give you my word that I’ll be open and committed to this experience.”
Mary searched his face, and whatever she saw there softened the furrow that had lightly creased her forehead. “All right,” she said. “And I promise to do my best to find you your perfect match.”
They shook hands at that point, and after a quick tour of the app he’d be using to see his matches’ profiles and complete post-date assessments, the meeting was over.
“Lookout for an email later today with all the information we’ve gone through,” she said as he walked her to the elevators. “I’ll have your first match before the end of the week.”
“That’s fast,” he said.
“We only have six weeks,” she replied, stepping into the empty elevator cab as he remained on the office floor. She pressed the close button once then a few more times when nothing happened.
