I reluctantly led Anwar down the hallway toward my lavender-walled bedroom. Before stepping inside, he politely excused himself so he could wash up. The hallway bathroom was situated directly across from my bedroom, and I noticed that he left the bathroom door slightly ajar. My curiosity quickly got the better of me, and I found myself watching as he meticulously rolled up each sleeve of his button-down and slowly yet thoroughly rubbed water over his arms all the way to the elbows. Then he grabbed the soap and carefully scrubbed each forearm in a circular motion before rinsing off the lather. It was almost as if he was getting ready to prep me for surgery. I shuddered at the thought. I was pretty sure that OBSESSIVE and COMPULSIVE were two qualities I had not mentioned on my list; however, I did not have much time to reflect on these thoughts because before I knew it, Anwar was making his way directly across the hall and into my room.

He walked around my bedroom silently, studying the various objects that were scattered across the floor and shelves—piles and piles of books, a stack of essays that had yet to be graded, old high school yearbooks, trophies from various tennis matches and the spelling bee I won in the fourth grade, and a wide assortment of picture frames highlighting special memories such as the spring break I spent in Cancún with my college roommates five years ago. When he finally finished his thorough examination of the contents of my room, he slowly made his way to the edge of my bed and sat down next to me.

We both stared uncomfortably at the purple wall in front of us, the slow ticking of the wall clock becoming louder with each passing second. I started to think about what my parents could have found appealing about him. I mean, it was true that on paper, he was exactly the kind of guy they would want me to be with—a star student who had gotten into medical school; came from a respectable family; and, most importantly, did everything his parents expected—including agreeing to participate in this old-fashioned matrimonial process. However, it seemed highly unlikely that Anwar had dated many girls in the past. My parents probably saw his lack of experience as a sign of decent values and traditions, but I saw it as yet another cultural flaw. As awkward as he was, I couldn’t really blame him. Until I moved away for college, the only conversations I was allowed to have with boys involved homework or smack talk on the tennis courts. It was no wonder that most South Asian men and women were far more stunted when it came to social interactions of these kinds. We were taught our whole lives to avoid any specimen of the opposite sex like the plague; yet the instant we reached a “marriageable” age, we were suddenly expected to skip the whole dating process and go directly into lifelong commitment. It was probably unreasonable of me to expect Anwar to know how to “woo” a woman when the only girls he had probably ever talked to were ones he was related to.