I lick my fingers and pull up my alien selections on the Intergalactic Dating Agency site. Orange cheese dust is salty on my tongue as I reach for another cheese curl. Amazingly, hundreds of aliens have requested me as a match, and I have until midnight to pick one or I lose my money. The long list pops up, and I sigh as I wonder how I'm supposed to narrow them down. What used to be the best matching program ever now has a major flaw.

The planet Erosicia's government decided Earth was being too scientific about pairing up their men with our women and not giving enough attention to physical attraction. They had us take out the ability to view percentage scores and dropped the threshold of compatibility. So now when a woman runs a query, any male who hits fifty percent or more comes up, but she doesn't know how strong a match they are.

I delete a smoking hot alien who is scowling as if he's posing for a mug shot. This new program requirement demanded by Eroscia has led to a lot of bad matches. And since it's expensive to bring the alien to earth and the alien has to marry the woman who chose them as part of the deal, the divorce rate has gone through the roof. Our government did decide to intervene, and now women are allowed to return the first alien and try again before having to plunk down thousands of dollars more to get another chance.

It's amazing that this is what relationships on earth have come to. A few years ago a plague struck and wiped out over ninety-five percent of our male population. When the planet Erosicia was discovered, we learned their superior life form was almost human, and women on earth found hope that we could all find love again.

I scroll through as I look for other reasons to delete some of my alien choices, and my keys click as I nix any guy who doesn't appear happy to have his picture taken. Not that it matters, because I can't imagine I'm going to find the love of my life this way. Once I end up with pages full of smiling aliens to choose from, I click the counter button to discover I've narrowed down my search to just over four hundred potential matches.

I scroll down and wonder if I should start deleting based on hair color now, and as my finger hovers over a redhead my phone alarm goes off. Rushing to grab my cell and figure out what I've forgotten to do, I knock over an empty soda can. It clatters as I read the notification. "Crap!" I jump up, realizing it's girls night at my place and my two besties will be here in a half an hour. I glance around the room at my usual chaos of empty food containers, dirty dishes, mail, discarded clothing, and who knows what else. There's no way I can clean it all up and figure out what I'm feeding them in thirty minutes.

I let out a big sigh and go to the kitchen. It's even worse in here. But I get an idea when I spy the box of extra-large garbage bags. I manage to get three bags full and shoved in my studio in time to wipe down surfaces. I'm in my bedroom sniffing through the pile of clothing to find something clean when my friends buzz to be let in.

After I allow them to come up, I open the door to Morgan and Cassie. Cassie's blond, spiral curls bounce as she glances around the apartment. "Hannah Sullivan, I don't believe it," she says. "You cleaned."

Morgan pushes her way past us. "Wow. You remembered we were coming? I almost sent you a text in case you were high on paint thinner." She walks over and lifts a throw pillow and reveals an empty chip bag I missed. Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she gazes at me with the offending garbage in her hand. "Whew. It's really you."

I glare at her for a second as if I'm mad, and Cassie asks, "What are we eating? I'm starving."

"Oh." I turn to her with a sheepish grin. "Delivery pizza?"

She chuckles as she pulls out her phone. "I suppose that's better than whatever you'd burn. The usual?"

Morgan and I agree. I'd take my friends' comments as insults if they weren't true. But I'm self-aware enough to know I personify the flaky artist stereotype. Morgan plops down on my couch before she picks up my laptop. She must have seen the countdown clock because she asks, "You have to pick by tonight? Need some help?"

I sit next to her. "Yes. This is so impossible."

Cassie's voice is soft in the background as she orders us dinner, and Morgan says, "Well you know I'm going to suggest you delete anyone whose color is off."

"Oh, right. You do it." A couple months ago Morgan picked a guy who had Eroscian fever and didn't tell her until after they kissed. My poor friend had to sweat it out for a week waiting to see if she developed the symptoms for an alien illness that is a chronic disease for humans.

Cassie comes to sit across from us, and as soon as she lowers herself in the chair she pops up with an "Ouch," and removes a fork that was tucked behind the cushion. It clatters on the coffee table when she sets it down. "Too bad you can't hear if they squeak when they walk." She's referring to her first alien match who refused to spend any of his stipend on their first date. He’d claimed his credit card hadn't activated right, which he couldn't have known since he hadn't had a reason to use it before he was brought to her.

Both of my friends returned their first match, and I think they're gun shy about using up their last chance. Morgan says, "Okay, I've removed all of the aliens who don't look healthy. What else?"

"How many does that leave me?"

"Three hundred and twenty-seven."

"You really should read their profiles, Hannah," says Cassie. My lawyer friend is a stickler for details, and I imagine she expects me to spend hours researching the right alien for me.

"They all say what they think we want to hear," I say as I reach for my laptop. I'm not sure why I even put up the money to get an alien. It's not like I'm going to find love, but I did it after a windfall of cash came to me from an art show. The truth is it would be nice to find a man to cohabitate with, and maybe I'll get lucky enough to find one who is happy to settle for a subpar relationship for the chance to live on earth. I'm tired of thinking so hard about my task, so I close my eyes and scroll down for a bit before I take my finger and touch the screen. When I open my eyes to look, I read off my pick. "Jake28." A key clicks as I push it to find out more. "Jake is an easygoing guy who loves to laugh. He'd like to share adventures on earth with a woman who will make the best of any situation and end the day by cuddling on the couch."

"Not this couch," says Cassie as she holds up the fork, and she chuckles.

Morgan says, "Hey, if he likes chips..."

"Very funny." I continue to read. "He's a hopeless romantic who likes to cook a wonderful meal to eat by candle light."

"He cooks?" asks Cassie. "I thought they got their food from dispensers?"

"See," says Morgan, "I swear the people running this program make crap up. Can you imagine if your day was spent writing these profiles? You're bound to run out of ideas after a while."

I stare at Jake's avatar and notice how warm his brown eyes seem. Like almost every alien on the site, he's got a buff body which makes me think it's a prerequisite. "Damn, why do these guys all have to be so hot?"

"I know. It makes you have so much hope." Morgan sighs. "I wish they'd include their flaws."

But then I'd have to share mine. I wasn't popular with guys when earth was crawling with them, and considering I can't even get regular work in my chosen profession, I have every reason to believe my alien match isn't going to be successful once he discovers who I really am. The countdown clock for my deadline flashes at me like a ticking time bomb, and I gaze at the sexy alien face before me. What have I got to lose? I hit the ‘initiate match’ button, and Morgan says, "Wait!" Her eyes are big as she looks at me. "Did you... You did."

"Holy crap," says Cassie. "You picked a guy who says he can cook when we all know he can't."

"We don't know that," I say with a tone of defiance, even though I don't believe it either. "Maybe they offer cooking classes now to prepare the aliens for earth."

"I'm already nervous for you, Hannah," says Morgan. "I need wine for this." She walks over to the door where she and Cassie had set their bags down and pulls out an extra-large bottle of our favorite cabernet.

I get up to go to the kitchen for glasses, and the girls follow me. A cabinet clicks when I open it and I pull down three mismatched goblets. "You guys are making too much of this," I say as I hand the wine opener to Cassie. "I can always send him back and pick another one."

"And then you'll be like us; too paralyzed with fear to pick another one," says Cassie as the cork in the bottle pops.

Morgan says, "You know, with Hannah's luck, she could end up with a great match."

"True," says Cassie. "When is your next show at Miranda Johnson's?" She's referring to the time I dropped my portfolio, which opened at the feet of Miranda Johnson when I bumped into her on the sidewalk. The gallery owner helped me pick it up and fell in love with my work. She offered me a show that turned out to be so successful I've been living off the proceeds for months. But now the money is just about gone, and I’m supposed to do another one. One I’m not going to be ready for. My stomach knots up as I wonder how I'm going to continue to pay the bills.

I flash to a vision of the paintings in my studio that mock me with their mediocrity. Thinking about the call I should return to Miranda to discuss preparations, I force a smile for my friends. "I'm working on it." The rich flavor of my wine tempts my taste buds as I drink, and it occurs to me that Jake will come with skills for a job; hopefully, one profitable enough to cover both our expenses. The thought makes me grin for real, because picking an alien match might not be such a bad thing after all.