The line outside the house was surprisingly long. I counted twenty-seven people in it. All of them were male, like me. We were all dressed the same way, wearing a brown fedora, black socks, black shoes, and brown trench coats. We didn’t talk to each other. We all knew why we were in the line. It was Thursday, the day of the flash contest.
The sexes were kept separate until they became sixteen years old, when the procreation law took effect. We wrote the law after the plagues that nearly wiped out the human race, for the purpose of re-populating the planet. For the flash contest the girl picked two of her girl-friends to keep her company. They sat on a sofa in the room of a house and watched as we walked through one at a time, stopping in front of the sofa, and flashing the three of them. We had to flash them properly. Walk up, stop, face the sofa, smile, open the trench coat, count to three, close the coat and walk off. That was the law.
The three girls then picked one person from that line that would mate with the female. The two had to produce a child within the first year. If the union produced no child, the mating became invalid, and the entire process repeated until a union produced offspring.
I stood in the line, hoping I was the first to mate with the girl who was sixteen and never been kissed.
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 66. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.