Sunshine. 

People "like to" describe sunshine as beautiful rays of glory filtering in but I like to describe it as a complete nuisance and damn wake-up call that assaults my poor pupils after a long night of total darkness. 

Groaning from the sun's persistent rays, I unzip my sleeping bag and with an aching back, roll out like a sausage escaping its casing before getting up and stretch to another spontaneous day of absolutely nothing shorter than uneventful. 

After a segment of various stretches, I grab my sleeping bag and dump it somewhere in the god-awful and forsaken closet of misfit clothes. 

If only I could afford to turn up the heat in this place; being almost broke isn't fun, especially when your next meal and heat source relies upon the happiness of others. 

I should probably back track and give a little biography (warning, there isn't much and it's probably pathetic) about my miserable life.  

Firstly, it's Catherine with a "C" and if anyone goes around writing it with a "K" I simply put one finger in the air...in my mind anyways because I don't have a cussing tongue or the balls to do that (I'm a saint. I know).  

Secondly, I'm twenty-one and horribly lonely. Yes, I'm still a virgin, no, I don't do drugs (but I secretly like holding cigarettes to look badass), and no tattoos stamped anywhere on my skin or piercings that will give me some unfortunate skin disease. I still get a tickling sensation just thinking about the cubic zirconia rashes from my childhood. 

 Frankly, my entire existence revolves around me working my ass off to afford a decent package of instant noodles. 

Thirdly, I'm in this miserable and depressing state because my dear parents (may they rest in peace) died when I was four and left me with my Gran. Loving old Gran on the other hand, passed away when I was eighteen, and since then it's been a lonely life. I refuse to lodge painful memories to the depths of my brain, my conscious and subconscious mind have dutifully repressed them like all aspiring young entrepreneurs that swallow traumatic experiences. 

Shoving the curtains aside, the light blinds my eyes and I let out a hiss. Making a face, I trudge back towards the centre of my freezing cold apartment and proceed to mechanically do my basic routine.

"Catherine! Open up!" Or maybe not.

Groaning, I curse the interruption and walk grudgingly towards the door. Yanking it with force, I see a seething and cross looking Ms. Zhao, the proprietress of this fine apartment complex with astronomical rent prices. 

Her eyes narrow dangerously, and I gulp involuntarily, plastering a fake genial smile, "Ms. Zhao, how are you?" 

"Awful but you can make it better. Where's the rent you owe me?" 

She's just a gem, a real swell gal. 

Though inwardly applauding her severe bluntness, I visibly wilt at the words, "rent," and "owe." 

"I'll pay the rent by the end of this week, I promise," my smile doesn't falter even as she snorts with contempt. 

"Look at this girl, she's under the impression that just because she's pretty, she doesn't have to pay me rent! Your cute smile is useless to me."  

"Thank you so much for your understanding," I responded breathless, quickly shutting the door at her gaping mouth, a sigh escapes my lips. 

I'm an awkwardly clumsy individual who barely stepped out of her adolescent phase of tripping and falling in heels or applying make-up without looking like a clown. 

Running a hand through my long thick hair, I consider her words with careful perusal. 

Being indoors so much, I tanned terribly, my light brown eyes are unremarkable, hardly garnering any one's notice regardless of the lighting. They didn't sparkle or enchant, replicating the millions of other humans on this earth who were brown eyed. 

My hair couldn't be classified as, 'nice' either because it was straight - too straight - and a simple shade of brown and my body is simply average. I did not possess an hourglass figure or a sexy waist line and my butt was nothing special. Quite shocking, considering my current occupation in life is being the apartment complex's matchmaker, a supposedly glamorous position. 

So where in the world did the word pretty fit? Shaking my head, I simply come to the conclusion that Ms. Zhao is blind and needs to take a trip to the optometrist.  

But the hard pressed landlady keeps me around for a reason, this entire apartment complex is packed with the elite or soon to be famous; from anyone who can sing to chefs on reality tv shows, this strange and secluded building is the source of my daily income. Setting these aristocratic beings and celebrity figures together is my goal and the best part of it all, is that they have no clue. Ms. Zhao is of course, part of the entire scheme and earns a generous commission in exchange for reducing the cost of rent but even then, I barely manage to scrape by.

If the identity of the matchmaker was known to be a poor twenty-one year old, then I'd be doomed and eternally mortified, and probably interrogated by a few divorcees seeking alimony, demanding I tell them why I ever set them up with their match in the first place. Everyone knew a matchmaker lived somewhere in the complex but they have yet to figure out the identity of someone so well hidden. People generally send requests over email or post it on the lobby bulletin board and I work my magic, and by magic, I mean do extensive research and conduct a few tests before letting a client know that their match has been arranged.

As if on cue, the phone rings and I answer it knowing the caller. "Any news?" 

"None at all. He's a tough cookie this one, but I'll eventually get to the bottom of this."

"Celia, you're the best at your job I know you'll get it done. Just remember to fax me all of Mr. Simmons information so I can find a match that's most compatible. Also drop the vintage detective talk, you're scaring me." 

Celia, my partner started this business with me when we were just seniors in high school, just simple girls who had a keen eye for observation when it came to love. She did all the field work while I did the research and paperwork end. We have a system and it works, especially for my pyjama-loving lifestyle. 

Scoffing, I can picture her rolling her eyes as she drums out in a resentful tone. "Mr. Simmons is nineteen Catherine, it's due to his mother's request that we find him a girl his age since he's been sleeping around with older women in their forties."

"That being besides the point," I make a few necessary gagging sounds before continuing, "if he's so determined to sleep around with older women, then he needs someone who is mature in both appearance and personality, or it might just be that he wants someone experienced?"

"I can't believe we're discussing this. I'm going to tail him for another hour before heading back home. I'll send a document containing his information later." 

Hanging up, I let out an exasperated sigh. This is it, this is my life in a nutshell. Fixing the lives of messed up young adults because their parents believe it's time for them to settle down and find, 'the one,' or so they say. High class functioning families usually do such things for the sake of appearances and reputation in order to hide their dysfunctions, concern for a son or daughter has no bearing. 

Rubbing my eyes, I glance at my laptop screen and decide to send Mrs. Simmons a letter of suggestion. This has been the protocol since the beginning of C&C Matchmaking (The first C standing for Catherine and the second C standing for Celia) that ensures the guardian or friend taking the initiative to find a match for their loved one, takes an active participating role in the lives of the individual. Certain specifications vary depending on the individual and what we think they need or may not need. It may be as simple as organising a, "meeting of coincidence," where we set up a date and place for the two match(ees) to meet or something more intensive involving a deliberate scandal. 

This letter in particular, specifies Mrs. Simmons to restrain her son from coming into contact with any older women between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five but of course, in prettier words, addressing her in a polite and formal way. The typical platitude and hyperbole here and there. You know, professional.

Playing some relaxing music, I settle into my red love-seat sofa and begin typing. A more positive note of the research aspect, is that I didn't have to leave my own home, even if the entire place is freezing cold and my ass sore from being glued to a chair for hours. I could easily spend days or weeks in pyjama bottoms and oversized hoodies, or take naps in my sleeping bag since it offered better insulation than my comforter or hard mattress. 

Absolutely nothing could beat that. 

Finishing off the letter, I begin to search for candidates that suit Mr. Simmons' profile. He was a stubborn and obnoxious one; they all were, but his twisted personality made it extra hard to find the perfect match even with his free-spirited and embracing attitude in regards to age gaps. Going through the apartment files, courtesy of Ms. Zhao, I narrow the list down to two possible girls: Laura on the second floor, or Binita on the eleventh. As creepy as that sounds, I did have a valid reason for knowing everything about these girls, it was, after all, to find their perfect match too.

Calling Celia, I share my thoughts on the two girls before filing more information on them, storing it away for later and moving onto the next client on the list, proceeding further with the Mr. Simmons file once I've heard from his mother in response to the letter of suggestion. 

Do not let the title mislead you, matchmaking involves vigorous work and dedication. It wasn't easy placing two complete strangers together, especially when you had nosey millionaire parents pestering you constantly. My inbox is consistently bombarded with emails and my fax machine tends to go off during the middle of the night; it's tiring work and a paycheque to paycheque lifestyle. 

But the satisfaction and zeros at the end of a cheque are worth it, even if my current diet consists of ramen noodles as my only source of nutrition since matchmaking had off seasons as well; summer tends to be the most profitable, but that's a matter of opinion, according to Celia. If you can trick people to fall prey into the allusion that is love, then no matter the season, people can be coupled off, or so she claims. 

Downing my remaining can of soda, I file away client number twenty-seven and stretch my sore muscles. Some of these cases wouldn't be finished till early spring, which means more sad meals for me. Sighing at the thought of pathetically bland food, I look out the window to see gorgeous snowflakes falling from heaven. 

If only people could hurry it up and fall in love at first sight but that's just wishful thinking, making this job an easy money-maker instead of the tiring career that it is.

Throwing on a jacket, I roll out the sleeping bag onto my ice-block of a mattress and take a short nap. It would only be a few hours till Mrs. Simmons replies back to me, her stay in Numeria was extended for personal reasons. Time zone differences can be cruel, I had to adjust my own sleeping habits to be awake when she beckons me via email. 

Yawning, I set my alarm and instantly fall asleep. 

*****************

He won't listen to me.

How many times have I gotten this message before? It's a classic line, parents are parents for a reason. Allowing your child absolute freedom at a young age and spoiling them needlessly results in such behaviour. 

A great number of these rich snobs aren't worthy to be parents, granting their children everything on a silver platter and catering to all their needs is what defines these very kids as ruined. Was it so hard to raise a human being to turn out decent?

I sound like an old hag but hell, these kids make my life miserable with unnecessary complications. I like my sleep without some rich celebrity complaining to me about their lack of parenting skills. 

Propose an offer he can't refuse, I write out plainly.

Will that really work?

It's worth a shot, and I recommend you refrain from giving too much away. If Mr. Simmons discovers what you're doing, then he has the right to break any contracts with C&C, regardless if you were the one to sign it.

Alright, I'll try but there's no guarantee what he'll do.

I'm sure he'll throw a fit and whine like a baby, yet another aspect of behaviour which is prevalent among elite children; they will get what they want, when they want it but I obviously don't type this.

Leaving Mrs. Simmons to her assigned task, I quickly take a hot, warm shower before dressing and rolling back into my sleeping bag. Hot showers were the only luxury I allowed myself to have. If I want warm water for anything else, I usually boil a pot and store it in a water bottle, then stuff it in a box, using old newspapers for insulation. 

My pauper lifestyle is more complex than it seems considering the fact that I rarely use electricity and reduce how much heat I use. I shut off all the lights and switch all electronics besides my phone, off in the hopes that my utility bills come out as two digits instead of three. Shivering from the cold, I rub the length of my arm before falling asleep once again.

*****************

"I'm telling you, he met with that old Marshall lady! And she's old enough to be my grandma!" Muffled and radiating static, Celia's outburst leaves my right ear ringing and I have to close my eyes briefly to recover from needling pain. 

"We both know you're exaggerating. She's old enough to be your sister or aunt but not your grandmother," I cried out, proffering my apartment a look of disgust as Celia paints a mental image I could have happily done without.

"All right, Miss-Know-It-All, have it your way, but she's still ridiculously too old for him. Thirty-eight years old! God, I would never want to sleep with a man that old, no matter how much he's willing to pay me," her voice drips with scorn and I can just picture her rolling her eyes on the other end.

Sighing, I rub my sore eyes. These conversations with Celia usually lasted for a good hour, I loved my friend but I also could not tolerate these early morning wake-up calls especially after having to provide parental counsel to Mrs. Simmons last night who was fed up with emailing and called wailing over the phone. Her son was a piece of work who needed a good smack across the face for making such a soft-hearted creature cry.

"So what you're saying is that Mrs. Simmons could not get through to him and he went off to do his...thing?" I added grimacing, replaying last night's phone call in my head. 

Celia merely snorts at my question and I can only roll my eyes, taking her disgruntlement as the affirmative.

"I think we should just throw his file and move onto the next client on the list."

"I think you're right. We're just wasting our time," opening my filing cabinet, I scan the folders at random and pick up one beginning with the letter, 'P.' 

"This guy is sick, if you have this much money go freakin' donate it to the poor and needy, or better yet, he could get an actual hobby and cultivate himself. Become a good boy who won't send his mother to an early grave!"

"Like that'll ever happen. How about Patrick Greene? He just came home from college and he'll be attending tonight's annual charity ball for endangered oysters, you can do a bit of snooping there and find out his likes and dislikes," Celia piped enthusiastically. 

"Sounds good, I'll send you a document once I get home but isn't Patrick Greene going there because of one of his buddies? Also wait, did you say oysters?"

"What do you mean? Yes, clams and oysters, people are consuming them at an alarming rate don't you know. We place the lives of oysters above all other species."

"You seriously never listen to the tabloids do you? Um, hello? And fish aren't being eaten at an alarming rate?"

"Give me one good reason why I should? I don't know, ask the fish experts."

"Because the main attraction of the ball isn't the oysters, it's the main guest."

"And that would be..." I drawled out, curiously. 

"The new President's son, Zander Nolan."

"So?" I demanded. 

"Soooo, he and Patrick are practically brothers."

Drumming my fingers against the top of the desk, Celia's line of thinking finally clicks in, "Security might be tight but that shouldn't be a problem for you."

"No, but if the President's son is going to be there with Patrick then that means the President will have extra surveillance, especially considering the rumours circulating all over."

"What rumours?"

"Of Zander moving out!" Celia exclaimed, her voice pitching slightly with giddiness. 

"Moving out of the Presidential house! That's never been done before." 

"Yup, and guess where he's going to be staying?"

"Where?"

"The very building you're in."

***********

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