I stared at my phone intently. My thumb rested over the Tinder app for a split second, but I had already made my decision. My thumb was cursed and so were my lungs. I took a hit of my joint and sighed, “Here we go again.” I started swiping left and then right, but got tired of choosing. My thumb became numb with movement until self-satisfaction was reached. A match of my dreams. I clicked on the profile.
She was a beautiful brunette with long legs and a white smile. I scrolled down to her bio, ‘Matchmaker’ highlighted the description. “How does one become a matchmaker?” I thought. “Aren’t there robots and computers for that sort of thing?” I searched the web for career information. Nothing showed up. I decided to take the investigation into my own hands and reached inside my desk.
I pulled out a small box. Inside, I knew I could find the answers to my questions. I wrapped my fingers around a little wooden handle. “How do you make one of these things?” I thought. I snapped off the wick. “Do they come apart and then you just, like, glue it together? Or, does the wick gets wrapped around the wood? How do you make a match?” I fumbled with the match and grabbed my lighter. “What a weird job to do. I could never be a matchmaker.” I put down the match, picked up my joint, and took a hit.