You can hurry love, some say

Programs like Quick Cupid offer opportunity to meet people also focused on finding someone

There are rose petals on the tables. Candles are burning. The lights are dimmed. It's cold outside, but warm here -- and about to get warmer -- in this private party room at Ricky Ly's, a Chinese restaurant in Jackson Township.

The room seems made for comfort. But that's an illusion. It's built for speed.

About 7:30 p.m., a man walks in. He's wearing a tie. His hair is neatly combed. He is quiet, maybe a little nervous. His host, Lola DaRe, is neither of those things. Having just finished arranging the room, she is bubbling with nervous energy as she greets him, hands him a score card and invites him to find a seat.

There are 11 tables, each with two chairs. He makes his way to a far corner, as if he wants to be alone. But that seems unlikely.

Soon, others begin to arrive. DaRe gives them a few instructions and has them sign a disclaimer. The women head off to the lounge to wait while the men settle at the tables, Peggy Lee's Fever playing quietly on the portable CD player.

Some of these people are lonely, some are curious, some are looking for fun, others for a long-term commitment. They are mutually drawn by the prospect of ``speed dating,'' which has become popular in the big cities. When DaRe got downsized out of her job last fall, she got into the act.

DaRe, who is happily married, named her business Quick Cupid. She made up some fliers and went around sticking them under windshield wipers outside bars and fitness clubs -- places she thought might be good trolling grounds for single people.

``Meet a quantity of age-appropriate, quality people looking to connect,'' the fliers said.

So here she is, preparing for her sixth session, this one for people in their 40s, give or take a year or two. Each has paid $30 for two hours of rotating conversations. Each of these 11 women will chat with each of these 11 men before the night is through.

They continue filing in, women in dresses and sweaters, checking in with DaRe before making their way to the lounge. The men find their assigned tables, some chatting, some sitting quietly, fingering the lavender ``Quick Cupid Score Card.''

The human ritual is underway, greased by DaRe, streamlined by a combination of choice and necessity.

Two friends, Mick Nedved and Bud Hoelzle, sit talking. Both are divorced; both would like to find someone to settle down with; and both are on their second go-round with Quick Cupid. Nedved is here because he finds it hard to meet people. His restrictions are reasonable: She can't be a smoker and she has to like dogs.

Hoelzle attended his first Quick Cupid session because he's considering holding one at Meadowlake Golf Course in Canton, where he manages the bar. He enjoyed it enough that he's returned. ``I like the idea of being able to meet people in a controlled environment, where you both know why you're there and there's not the usual bar B.S.,'' he says.

At 8 p.m., DaRe steps into the lounge and announces to the women that it is time to begin. They file into the room, DaRe shepherds them to assigned tables, and it begins.

There is no hesitancy; the room fills with voices and laughter. It's completely artificial, but also completely honest about its intentions, safe from the pratfalls of personal ads and Internet dating services. When the night is through, DaRe collects the score cards and if there's a mutual match -- two people who wrote down one another's names -- she notifies them and shares their contact information.

Then they're on their own. Every fiveminutes or so, DaRe calls the meeting back to order and the women each move ahead one table as the men remain seated. DaRe, watching from near the door, says, ``You tell the men, `You sit at a table and every five minutes a new woman comes along.' And they're like, `OK -- where do I sign?' '' Round 2 The next round of conversation begins. He: ``How old are you?'' She: ``Fifty-one.'' He: ``Hey, age is only a number. It's how you feel.'' She: ``So, have you done this before?''

The dialogue warms. Both talk about their families and their jobs. It may sound like small talk, but it's the platform for a much broader range of communication. Some keep their hands under the table, others gesture animatedly. Some finger their pens, as if they're already making the decision to mark this person's name on the score card, while others seem relieved when the time comes to move on. DaRe is both mother hen and fly-on-the-wall.

She watched one night as a man brought props and approached the session like a game show host. Setting a screwdriver on the table, he would ask each potential sweetheart, ``Name three things you would do with this.'' DaRe has heard sincere conversations and opening lines like, ``If you were a can of food, what would you be?'' The matches The next day, DaRe tallies the cards. There are 34 mutual matches, for an average of 1 ½ matches per person -- slightly lower than normal. She doesn't follow up formally with her clients, but she does hear stories.

One couple that met in early November spent New Year's Eve together in Las Vegas. Another woman told DaRe that her first date was a flop -- ``he was a little too country.'' Nedved selected two women, each of whom had selected him. One, however, had begun dating someone just before the Quick Cupid night.

The other was an old grade-school acquaintance whom he plans to see without romantic strings attached. Hoelzle scored mutual matches with all three women he'd selected. His first date was Friday. The woman was someone he was slightly acquainted with before, and had always found attractive. ``I was pleased, and a little surprised she matched with me,'' he said. ``And that's the beautiful thing about this, is that there's no right or wrong. You just kind of go with it.'' They went out for drinks. The conversation, Hoelzle said, ``was never strained and very easy. We decided we definitely want to get together again.'' All it took was a little jump-start.