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taking care of me are long gone.” 
    Obviously confused, Mikayla asked, “Why are you still with him?”
    “Habit, child.  We get in them and that’s that.”
    “I hope I never settle into a life of habit.  I want love and laughter.”
    “It’s not so bad.  I’ve set up hundreds of couples and only a few have that extra something that makes them perfect for each other.  We do our time and try not to kill each other on bad days.”  She shrugged.  “For most, that’s enough.  Nobody likes to be alone.  Get a little house, have a couple kids, take a cruise on your anniversary.  What more can you ask for?”
    “A whole lot…but I guess this is the best I’m going to get.”
    “That’s the spirit!  It’s been a pleasure, dear.”  The matchmaker waddled away to her cart and yelled over her shoulder, “Give him hell!”
    Mikayla and the man sang a song together.  It was an upbeat number where he professed that he would love and care for her, put her first, and always be the man she “fell in love” with. 
    Coming to a complete stop in the dance, she replied deadpan, “I seriously doubt that but you give it your best shot.” 
    He continued to tell her all the ways he was going to improve her life while they danced fast across the stage.  Then he spun her, dipped her low, and kissed her deeply. 
    From his position in the lighting booth, Isaiah watched Mikayla flinch before she covered it. 
    Standing her upright, he asked what she planned to do for him , since he promised so much .  She danced cheerfully and explained that she wouldn’t kill him in his sleep when his snoring kept her awake, would refrain from burning the dirty clothes he left on the floor, would stop herself from lacing his food with poison when he’s late without calling, and would leave him his masculinity when she did a better job of pleasing herself than he’s capable. 
    He gave her a clueless shrug and accepted her terms, blatantly leering at her body and focused on only one thing.  Her dramatic eye roll and sigh of resignation highlighted her understanding that she knew exactly what she was getting.  They danced off the stage together and the audience clapped loudly. 
    The third act took place several years into the couple’s future.  The backdrop was the home she made with the man she settled on.  The spotlight focused on Mikayla wearing an unattractive housedress as she stood over the stove with her hand on her hip. 
    The home was neat, but she looked tired as ill-behaved children ran through the kitchen and her husband – now gone to fat – watched football, oblivious to everything around him. 
    His deliberate ignorance and laziness fed her clear frustration.  A look of disgust crossed her face as he scratched his balls with deep concentration. 
    Through her kitchen window, she noticed a deliveryman walk to the house next door to drop off a package.  The first song from the play drifted softly through her mind as she unashamedly admired the man’s body and energy. 
    Without looking away from the television, her husband yelled across the house to ask when dinner would be ready. 
    Mikayla closed her eyes, resting her palms on the counter, and said to herself, “I thought you’d help me…instead, you make things so much harder.  You’re nothing more than another chore to check off my endless task list.”
    She sang about her need to be held by a man who truly cared about her pleasure, who appreciated how hard she worked in and out of her home, and wondered at her husband’s unwillingness, despite her efforts, to be such a man. 
    “I need a partner…not a child.  If you’re not going to help me, I’ll do it my damn self.”
    The sound of children fighting, the football game, and the phone ringing got louder and louder.  Throwing down her spoon, she turned off the oven, removed her apron, and stormed from the kitchen.  In front of him, she waited for him to acknowledge her. 
    “I work all