“I’ll find my woman some day,” said Jatin, pieces of crushed toast spraying from his mouth, one of them almost boring into his dad’s face.

“When?” yelled his dad. “In my lifetime or yours?”

Jatin pushed his chair back and leaped from his seat, disgusted at the familiar breakfast conversation that he knew would end with either his dad’s plate flying across the room or his dad sinking into a sickening reminiscence about Jatin’s dead mother. He did not want Jatin to waste the most virile years of his life typing away on a computer or playing poker with his useless friends till 2 in the morning on weekends.

“The laptop is not for the lap. Its heat will burn your fertility,” Jatin had grown weary of the same words. “Why do you spend so much time with men? Your mother’s biggest regret was not being able to live long enough to see your bride cook in her kitchen.”

“She died when I was three, dad.” Jatin responded angrily one day. The plate flew across the table again.

The past few days were filled with uncomfortable conversations about an imminent singles convention in Tampa, where twenty-something year old single Indian Americans congregated to find a partner. “No, not an arranged marriage,” his dad insisted. “An arranged platform maybe.” Jatin detested the idea; he found it akin to walking into the pet store to find what he needed. “Pet store? Are you stupid?” His dad was furious. “Do pets get to choose you?”

Jatin went to Tampa; he wished he weren’t there. The ballroom was replete with fake giggles, garish attire, exorbitant jewelry, and liberally exaggerated cleavage. Scents from loud perfumes filled the air and commingled in obscene doses; he was getting a headache. While desperate youngsters hobnobbed, their parents sat in the adjacent room, formally dressed, hands folded, their hawkish eyes following their child’s movements, the strangers they wooed or cooed with.

Jatin badly wanted a cigarette. As he watched his puff rise into evanescence, his eyes fell on a woman sitting alone on a bench, looking bored. He ground his cigarette out under his heel and asked her for a lighter. He liked where their conversation was going. She did not have too much jewelry on her, and the only necklace that she wore to make her mom happy was borrowed. There was a tiny murmur in Jatin’s heart when she hardly smiled at his stupid jokes. It was perfect. No perfume, no fake, no desperation. Her cleavage, Jatin reasoned, was accidental.