Two doves sit huddled together on the rooftop of Duomo Santa Maria Nascente; one of the largest cathedrals in Italy. Basking in the gentle coral and golden hues of the late afternoon -rivalling the brushstrokes of the late Renaissance painters- their beady eyes trail Milan’s skyline. 

As sunset falls into dusk, they survey the harmonious clash of nature (sculpted by the Father) and the architectural feats of humankind. The tall architecture seems to taunt the sky, daring to defy laws so carefully drafted by unperceivable higher powers. But those who dare to look -to really look- will find nothing could be further from the truth. Man’s ingenuity does not present a challenge to God but a misguided chase; to touch the skies would be to come a little closer to the source where it all began and because she knows this, the sky embraces us in all its colours. 

Similarly, those who would dare to look, yet will never care to look, will find that the doves are -in fact- no doves at all. However, this discrepancy may be forgiven because, like doves, matchmakers do not particularly care about the impressive creations of humans. They are not allowed to care about the emotions of their assigned subjects or, for that matter, have emotions themselves besides the ones relevant to the job. 

Matchmakers are empty beings, which is what makes them flexible and malleable, both in personality and appearance. At least, they are supposed to be. 

Ironically, though they have most likely not thought of this themselves, these matchmakers have chosen to take on a human symbol of love by twisting themselves into the forms of doves. Splinters of the skies themselves, matchmakers are sent down to earth by their superiors to help move along matters of love. Though impartial to the feeling themselves, their only purpose is to subtly nudge their human subjects into the warm embrace of their fated partner(s), preferably without being noticed. 

Look closer now and see, that the doves fold their wings in unnatural angles concealing their transformation in an improbable shroud of grey feathers until more familiar humanoid figures take shape. 

The shorter of the two lands on the ridge of the roof, dangling their feet off the ledge in a delicate balancing act. “Tell me again, Alluno, what makes a good matchmaker,” they request lively. Boyish with loose, bouncing, brown curls but not quite male, pretty with thin lips and a blinding smile that is hardly feminine, their gender remains elusive. 

The same could be said for their companion. But where the smaller one mixes and remixes gender until it all becomes a confusing mush where each edge -every angle- reveals something new like a fragmented amethyst, they are brutish, with short blonde hair, devoid of any markers that would give their orientation away. They are the definition of neutrality. 

“I suppose disguise,” they grumble, leaning against one of the many white marble pillars. Their face is perfectly symmetrical, more symmetrical than the cathedral itself and perfectly smooth like soft marble. It shows just as much emotion. 

“Indeed.” The smaller one smiles and dimples emerge from the soft dough of their cheeks. They sit down on the ridge and momentarily look down at the dizzying height.

“Whether in human or animal form, you must be invisible, ordinary and forgettable. You must hide in their peripherals. Humans are highly automized creatures and only register what is of interest to them,” they continue to explain. Their eyes settle on a point in the far distance. “Even if they do notice you, if you blend into the background, they will have forgotten about you in an instant. Humans have a very limited attention span: exploit that.” 

“Would you remind me of the second rule, Insegnante?” Their tall companion asks politely without a change in intonation. While their face is as perfectly symmetrical as the grand, gothic cathedral on which they are standing, everything about them, from their cold, flat voice to their posture, is more reminiscent of the brutalist, British architecture of the 1950s, their physical form as expressive as a block of cement. 

Their teacher, whose playful attitude would make you believe they are the student, shakes their head disapprovingly. “Alluno… You should know this by now; it is one of our core tenets! How will you ever pass your upcoming exams if you have not mastered the basics?” 

Having mastered their own advice of seamlessly blending into the background, the teacher does indeed fit more into their current environment than the student does. Where their student is all strict, harsh lines, they are Roman curves and arches. 

“Fine, I shall explain it one last time.” They smile, briefly breaking the illusion that they are simply a Roman statue of a long-worshipped god. “The second rule is related to our first: in human form, you must always have an alibi. While humans border on forgetfulness, they occasionally have the curious tendency to take a sudden interest in us. They are inquisitive creatures after all... Therefore, it is always a good idea to have an alibi ready.

A bland alibi devoid of points of intrigue will steer them away from you effectively. You want to blend in. Metaphorically speaking -if not literally- you want to become a tree that they encounter in the middle of the forest.”

“I see, Insegnante… What will your alibi be this time?” Their student wonders aloud. Without knowledge of how matchmakers work, you might believe on the basis of their outward expression that they are completely disinterested in the answer to their question. Nothing can be further from the truth. 

“Enough with the Insignante, Alluno!” Their teacher muses, as they once again stand up, turning dangerously yet elegantly on the ledge in an act of pure mathematical precision. “From now on, call me Milo, for that shall be the role I play tonight!” 

“Milo? As in Michael Angelo?” If they could have experienced surprise, they may have raised an eyebrow. But for now, the eyebrows of the student remain perfectly levelled. 

“Indeed, I am talking about that Michael.” Their teacher smirks, perfectly aware of the gambit they are taking by taking on the shortened nickname the Italians gave their superior hundreds of years prior. They had never gotten on well with the archangel, and always found them to be too stuck up. Delivering a report with his name on it will certainly be an entertaining way to fuck with him. 

“I do believe that to be highly unprofessional,” their student states matter-of-factly. Their statement contains no hint of accusation. 

“In che senso? Milo is a perfectly acceptable name in Italy! Are you trying to offend my mother?” Milo answers with raised eyebrows, tapping their chest impatiently. Their answer is most definitely accusatory. 

Their student looks at them emotionless, but their voice carries a warning. “Do not go overboard, Milo… You know the third rule: no emotions and no human distractions. You've got to be objective and focus on your work. They will not be kind in your punishment if you slip up and get too sucked up into your role.” 

“Oh, so you do know the rules after all?” Their teacher muses. “Very good, Alunno, you’ll do well on your tests, I’m sure. No need to worry. Not like you could!” 

They laugh cheerfully before peering dangerously close over the ledge. There is no fear in their eyes. “Alas, it is time for me to go, my youngling. It is time for my new assignment. Now, observe.”

In a show of perfect control over their form Milo jumps off the roof. The soft Roman arches of their facial features turn to delicate, curling feathers, their neck a collar of metallic emerald green. Their wild curls are now folded into talons, and their intelligent eyes shine Ruby red, a treasure seldom appreciated by people who perceive creatures of the sort.

Milo has used their angelic abilities to turn into a pigeon. 

Their student rolls their eyes in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Show-off,” they mutter under their breath.