“You ladies must be here for the event,” he said, gesturing toward the doors to his far right. “I’m Iain, by the way,” he said, leading us through a sea of tipsy twentysomethings hanging around antique pool tables littered with shot glasses. Tania kept glancing back at me with a bewildered look. I shrugged. Everyone knew that Muslims didn’t drink, so it made little to no sense for an Islamic matrimonial service to choose this particular venue for its event. Perhaps they’re trying something different, I thought as Iain ushered us into a dim, lounge-like room toward the back of the building.

I looked at all the numbered tables lined up throughout the room. “Maybe the tablecloths are laced with bacon too,” I whispered in Tania’s ear as she suppressed a laugh. There were a sizable number of singles already there. The introverts were standing around awkwardly checking their phones. The extroverts had already begun mingling with drinks in hand. I wasn’t great at math, but a quick sweep of the room made it clear the ratios were off. There were more women present than men.

Tania noticed it too. “We’re still early,” she said. “I’m sure more men will be arriving soon.” I nodded, trying to ignore the knot of worry growing in the pit of my stomach. I glanced across the room, noticing a short, rotund aunty signaling us over. She greeted us with an amiable smile.

“Salaams! Welcome!” she exclaimed, waving her arms. She was wearing a traditional long-sleeved salwar kameez paired with a tightly wrapped hijab; her ultraconservative attire clashed with the sensual aesthetic of the room. The image was jarring. “Come, let’s get you ladies signed up,” she said in a heavy South Asian accent, leading us toward a long table lined with name tags and a stack of programs highlighting the schedule for the night. I grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled my name onto a white tag.

“Feel free to walk around and introduce yourselves,” the aunty said, before waving over another group of singles. I noticed that most of the women in the room were wearing hijabs. What if this event is geared toward more conservative Muslims? I was dressed modestly, but I knew there were many Muslim men who preferred a spouse who was more outwardly conservative. Many of these men would consider a woman with an uncovered head to be a deal breaker. I hoped those men would not be in attendance tonight. I didn’t need to have my options limited even more.

Tania and I studied the room and slowly inched our way toward the extroverts, who seemed a bit friendlier. Unsure of what to do next, we lingered for a few minutes sipping the mocktails handed to us by another attractive blond bartender. Tania eventually finessed her way into conversation with a group of chatty professionals, while I walked back to the table with the name tags. I skimmed through the evening’s program in order to mentally prepare myself for what was to come. There would be a short introduction by the event organizer (who I assumed was the cheerfully plump aunty), a round of icebreakers, and then the main event—the seven-minute speed dates. I took a few deep, cleansing breaths to calm my faltering nerves. My third exhale was interrupted by a sharp jab to my left rib.