who keeps looking like she's going to burst into tears any second. You're kind. I appreciate that.”
I open my mouth to tell him that none of that meant much. That the water was day-old and luke-warm, and I was tired of carrying it around. That I held the door because I was terrified of what was on the other side. That I probably smiled at the redhead, who I don't even remember, because smiling is my default position. But before I have a chance, the microphone squeals and we cringe as a group, necks into shoulders, like frightened turtles. The stone-faced judge has once again taken the podium.
“Welcome to the second portion of the Passing Ceremony. Before we begin I would like to briefly outline procedure. We will call each young lady in random order, announcing her name and number and asking her to come to the platform. We will then call the three young men with the most similar algorithm results to join the young lady on stage and allow her to make a selection. If selected, the gentleman will be permitted to either accept or decline her offer. If he accepts, the couple will then proceed to the room of blessing, and will enter society as unified partners. Be aware that anyone who refuses to make a selection or accept any offers faces almost certain death by the break of dawn tomorrow morning.”
I should be listening, should be thinking about the fact that this procedure seems, in the very best light, poorly thought out and skewed in favor of the first women called, but I'm overwhelmingly aware that Bearded Guy is still standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell hints of deodorant and fresh laundry detergent. I have a bizarre urge to touch him, to let my bare arm brush his, to feel liquid fire rush through my veins when he doesn't move to break the contact, as I feel absolutely certain he wouldn't. Instead, I clasp my hands together in front of me and draw them up to my collarbones, effectively keeping myself from doing something so silly and juvenile.
After a moment, I feel him look at me again.
“I'm Aaron, by the way,” he whispers.
I can't help it – I smile at him. “Brynn. Nice to meet you.”
The judge is droning on about the importance of the decision we are about to make, words he could undoubtedly recite in his sleep, given that he mostly likely repeats them fifty or sixty times every year. As he speaks, he keeps his body angled away from us, his nose slightly wrinkled, his lips tight. It is as though he were staring at a disease-ridden mutt, covered head to toe in its own vomit and urine. So much pity. So much revulsion. And yet he manages to keep his voice almost hollow. All the emotions have been carefully scooped out. I struggle to pay attention.
“...and therefore would simply ask that you keep in mind the fact that the closer two partners are in number, the greater their chances at a long and successful existence. Weak pairings frequently...expire...after a few years, making it nearly impossible to maintain the growth of our fragile human race. While we, the members of your governing body, do understand that this is perhaps the most difficult decision of your young lives, we hope that you will make your choice based on sound logic and duty to mankind, rather than on the whimsical, hot-blooded impulses so typical of your ego-centric generation.”
I glanced at Aaron, find him watching me, sidelong, and roll my eyes. He nods, understanding. “Douche bag,” we mutter at exactly the same time. I clap my hand over my mouth too late – a quasi-hysterical giggle has already burst, glittering, into the wet-leaf silence of the room. Johanna elbows me hard; the crowd leans away from us – water from oil. The judge's eyes narrow in our direction, and I feel like I've had my palm slapped by a ruler.
“Ahem. I also want to make you all aware of an unpleasant reality – that there will be two of you tonight who will not be chosen, given that the population of
I open my mouth to tell him that none of that meant much. That the water was day-old and luke-warm, and I was tired of carrying it around. That I held the door because I was terrified of what was on the other side. That I probably smiled at the redhead, who I don't even remember, because smiling is my default position. But before I have a chance, the microphone squeals and we cringe as a group, necks into shoulders, like frightened turtles. The stone-faced judge has once again taken the podium.
“Welcome to the second portion of the Passing Ceremony. Before we begin I would like to briefly outline procedure. We will call each young lady in random order, announcing her name and number and asking her to come to the platform. We will then call the three young men with the most similar algorithm results to join the young lady on stage and allow her to make a selection. If selected, the gentleman will be permitted to either accept or decline her offer. If he accepts, the couple will then proceed to the room of blessing, and will enter society as unified partners. Be aware that anyone who refuses to make a selection or accept any offers faces almost certain death by the break of dawn tomorrow morning.”
I should be listening, should be thinking about the fact that this procedure seems, in the very best light, poorly thought out and skewed in favor of the first women called, but I'm overwhelmingly aware that Bearded Guy is still standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell hints of deodorant and fresh laundry detergent. I have a bizarre urge to touch him, to let my bare arm brush his, to feel liquid fire rush through my veins when he doesn't move to break the contact, as I feel absolutely certain he wouldn't. Instead, I clasp my hands together in front of me and draw them up to my collarbones, effectively keeping myself from doing something so silly and juvenile.
After a moment, I feel him look at me again.
“I'm Aaron, by the way,” he whispers.
I can't help it – I smile at him. “Brynn. Nice to meet you.”
The judge is droning on about the importance of the decision we are about to make, words he could undoubtedly recite in his sleep, given that he mostly likely repeats them fifty or sixty times every year. As he speaks, he keeps his body angled away from us, his nose slightly wrinkled, his lips tight. It is as though he were staring at a disease-ridden mutt, covered head to toe in its own vomit and urine. So much pity. So much revulsion. And yet he manages to keep his voice almost hollow. All the emotions have been carefully scooped out. I struggle to pay attention.
“...and therefore would simply ask that you keep in mind the fact that the closer two partners are in number, the greater their chances at a long and successful existence. Weak pairings frequently...expire...after a few years, making it nearly impossible to maintain the growth of our fragile human race. While we, the members of your governing body, do understand that this is perhaps the most difficult decision of your young lives, we hope that you will make your choice based on sound logic and duty to mankind, rather than on the whimsical, hot-blooded impulses so typical of your ego-centric generation.”
I glanced at Aaron, find him watching me, sidelong, and roll my eyes. He nods, understanding. “Douche bag,” we mutter at exactly the same time. I clap my hand over my mouth too late – a quasi-hysterical giggle has already burst, glittering, into the wet-leaf silence of the room. Johanna elbows me hard; the crowd leans away from us – water from oil. The judge's eyes narrow in our direction, and I feel like I've had my palm slapped by a ruler.
“Ahem. I also want to make you all aware of an unpleasant reality – that there will be two of you tonight who will not be chosen, given that the population of
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