Sync With Me

Above the restaurant’s reception, the electronic dashboard flickered to 6:58pm.  

Two more minutes before my date arrived.

It was my first Synced date, so I had no idea what to expect. Synced was an elitist new dating program promising love to those serious about a relationship. Since its launch, Synced left no broken hearts and instead, a trail of raving reviews.

All registrations required an appointment. A Synced employee screened the singles to determine if they were eligible for their service; those who signed up for noncommittal reasons were turned away.

Successful applicants were initiated as Sparks. A week later, Synced paired Sparks based on carefully curated compatibilities, not through algorithms or questionnaires like other dating apps. My consultation with an immaculate woman lasted almost ninety minutes. She filmed our session so she could later review my personality and romantic aspirations with peers.

Synced prohibited interactions between Sparks on their app. No messages, no phone calls, no video calls. After a Moderator matched Sparks, a time and place was arranged for an in-person dining experience. Synced claimed this system prevented preconceived ideas, and the relationship would develop organically.

Besides a monochrome image of my Spark photographed within the last fortnight, all I knew about him was his name and age. Although it was a blind date, I doubted he’d stand me up. Synced stored our credit card details. Not only would it automatically deduct the dinner bill based on your order, members would also be penalised with a large fee if they didn’t show up to their date.

I downed another glass of iced water. My hand shook as I swept back a lock of hair that clung to my neck. Would I have to shake his hand? How did one act in front of your alleged ideal partner?

My mind blanked when a dark shadow loomed over my table.

I blinked and raised my head to see what blocked the restaurant’s sepia lighting.

Huxley.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, rising to my feet.

“Hi Clover,” he greeted. His grin widened, and it emphasised two dimples. He bent down and brushed his lips against my flushed cheeks. Mint and sandalwood tickled my senses, and I deeply inhaled before he pulled back.

My heart pounded behind my ribcage as I returned to my seat. He looked better in person. His dark buzzcut accentuated his large green eyes that sparkled with mischief and warmth.

A beep rang from the upright tablet on the edge of our table.

“WOULD YOU LIKE A DRINK?” Bold, black letters danced across the screen, and when they disappeared, a female robotic voice repeated the question.

Huxley raised an eyebrow. “Would you, Clover?”

Liquid courage. I could use some but didn’t trust how I’d behave.

“I’m good with water for now, thanks.”

“Same,” Huxley agreed, and he pressed ‘no’. The pop-up disappeared, and the tablet faded to black.

The only people in the venue were Sparks. It was comforting that I wasn’t going through this alone. Everyone here was in the same position. Even Huxley.

I shifted in my seat. I wanted to leave an impression with Huxley. Could I achieve that tonight?

“So, tell me about yourself,” Huxley welcomed.

“I’m a primary school teacher,” I simpered. “I used to teach Year Sixes but was sad to see them graduate after a year, so I’m sticking with Year Fives for now. What about you?”

“I’m a culinary microbiologist,” he explained. “It’s great experimenting how microbes can influence the flavour of foods. Unfortunately, I don’t get to taste them. I send through my recommendations, and some other folks get to sample them. Though that could be a good thing as I’ve heard some of the combinations don’t turn out as expected!”

I chuckled. “Have you concocted anything new on menus?”

Huxley laughed, and just like that, we found an easy banter. I learnt that Huxley had a twin brother who was a proud parent to identical twin girls, while I shared that I had a younger half-sister. I gushed about my Dachshund, and Huxley lamented over his dog allergy. I confessed that I wasn’t allergic to cats yet somehow had an irrational fear towards them.

Our flow was interrupted by another buzz on the tablet. “ARE YOU READY TO ORDER?”

I flinched, and my eyes darted to the clock. 7:17pm. It felt like we’d just sat down.

I was so enamoured by Huxley that I’d forgotten we weren’t alone. I could spend hours talking to him. It was as though I had rekindled with an old friend after a long, overdue catchup.

We traded stories, emphasising on the key events in our lives.

Moderators observed our interactions through the tablet. They reasoned it would help them better understand individualised interests to enrich future dates. Yet their control of the tablet prompts was still abrupt. Usually waiters were adept at polite interruptions, but the ones here just brought out the menu orders and cleared tables for the next course. Synced designed this restaurant setup, stating that without distractions from other people, patrons would have undivided attention from their Sparks.

“We haven’t even looked at the menu yet,” Huxley admonished. Holding the microphone icon on the tablet rather than tapping ‘yes’ or ‘no’, he instructed, “Please give us five more minutes.”

“UNDERSTOOD,” chirped the tablet.

“I guess we should have a look… unless we go with the Personalised Option?” Huxley suggested.

Personalised Options were a convenience these days. Diners stated their allergies and preferences, and the chefs prepared the closest dishes off the menu.

“I’ll go with the Personalised Option,” I answered. Choosing the Personalised Option would save us time and also from awkwardly hunching over the one tablet whilst scrolling through the menu.

“Then I will too,” Huxley mused.

Overriding the tablet which would have chimed back in five minutes, Huxley pressed the order icon and requested: “One Personalised Order for Huxley. Three courses: entree, main and dessert. No allergies, no seafood and not carb heavy, not too much salt and no warm desserts. And you, Clover?”

“One Personalised Order for Clover. Three courses: entree, main and dessert. No allergies, would like warm, light dishes, and for dessert, something with chocolate. Thank you.”

The system declared ‘CONFIRMED’, and I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. We could finally resume our conversation without worrying about another Moderator quip. Waiters furtively dropped off our dishes, and our interactions with them were absentminded ‘thanks’.

As I scooped the last pieces of my brownie and Huxley picked at his lemon slice, I was aware that our date was coming to a close.

Only Synced had our information, and it was mandatory to leave our phones at reception. Synced asserted that phones were also a distraction, and no phones meant that Sparks couldn’t excuse themselves from an emergency text or call.

Therefore, everyone stayed for the allocated two hours. I’d thought that timeframe was slightly too long, what if I didn’t click with the person across the table? But now… seeing Huxley’s wry smirk, it suddenly didn’t feel long enough.

All too soon, a jingle rang from the front of the venue, signalling the end of our date.

My eyes lingered on Huxley, knowing I might not ever see him again.

“It was great to meet you, Clover,” Huxley said, standing up.

“You too, Huxley,” I whispered, following suit.

A brief hesitation, both of us conscious not to make false promises.

Shuffling behind the other pairs, we waited in line to collect our phones. Only one pair chatted amiably while Huxley and I remained silent, just like everyone else.

I matched Huxley’s pace as we exited the venue. Our shoes dragged against the concrete, and the scrapes echoed in my ears.

Synced didn’t dictate what we could do afterwards.

My heart skipped a beat.

Now that we were free from Synced’s restraints, what if Huxley wanted to spend the rest of the evening together? What if Huxley asked for my phone number?

I turned to face him, a coy smile tugging on my lips. I froze. Huxley was no longer besides me. I gasped and whirled back around.

Huxley stood a couple of steps back. His handsome face was devoid of any emotions, so different to how he was under the restaurant’s illuminated lights. It reminded me that despite how I was drawn to him, he was still essentially a stranger.

“Have a good night, Clover.”

My heart clenched. “You too, Huxley.”

With a strained smile, Huxley turned back around. I watched as his back retreated into the darkness. Numbly, I wandered in the other direction, knowing I could order a Rideshare at any time from any place.

My phone vibrated from a Synced notification.

“COULD TONIGHT’S DATE BE MORE THAN A SPARK?”

Most definitely.

But what about the other four Sparks I had lined up? Synced costed half my month’s salary and guaranteed members would meet their perfect match within five dates, otherwise money back.

I’d already paid for Synced’s service. Other suitors could be even more charming than Huxley. Tonight confirmed that Synced had established a successful process in pairing up singles.

If both Huxley and I responded with ‘yes’, Synced would finally exchange our contact details so we could pursue our budding romance.

But if he pressed ‘no’? I’d find out tomorrow at 10am if I didn’t get ‘CONGRATULATIONS! SYNC - COMPLETE!’ Synced explained that with them managing the communications, it eliminated ghosting. If users received no announcements following their date, Synced supplied the photo of their next Spark and encouraged members to focus on their new prospect instead.

My finger hovered over the options. If I didn’t choose by midnight tonight, it’d automatically default to no.

No need to rush into a decision now. I still had three hours to decide.

I swiped up to close the app.

It was the weekend. The night was still young. I decided to get a cocktail that I denied myself the whole evening.

Perhaps I’d even meet someone else the old-fashioned way.