I was red cheeks and shivering. My hand always quakes when I'm stunned with nerves. A part of me was ready to run. But what I really wanted to do was enjoy the night and laugh out loud, I'm in my head talking courageously of course my voice never makes an entrance. Here I am invited to the party, they must like my company but I'm such a stone. I put effort into my hair and my lashes! I even used my expensive parfum. And yes, he is here, and right now he is staring! Why is he still staring? Pause. Is there something behind me that caught his attention. I am tucked into this wall--I am the only thing he sees!

I must be in my head. I think, clenching my sweaty palms. There’s no way—I must be delusional. I mean, someone as perfect as him: face sculpted by the gods, light eyes, perfect hair. Rich and has good manners—just everything about him is so effortlessly perfect. I guess some people are just born perfect like this, with no effort at all.

But wait… why is he still looking? Why is he walking over?

The music turns into a slowed song, perfect for dancing, perfect for this moment. The warm gleam of the lights reflects on him, making him look even more perfect as he slowly walks over, eyes locked on me like I’m some sort of treasure in a museum. He walks close to me, only inches apart, his perfect blue eyes looking at my face from up and down as he outstretches his hand to the side of my cheek.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers under his breath. He sounds just as breath-taken as I am. My face warms up.

“R-really?” I say, eyes wide, looking up at him—maybe a bit too much of my excitement visible.

“Yes. Well… no, not exactly.” My brow furrows, confused. His hand is still at the side of my face. “Well, I mean, your maxilla is, but you do have an epicanthic fold…”

Speechless. I’m speechless right now. I mean, I’ve never been more confused. Does he like me or not? Is any of this good or bad???

“Incredible, really,” he says in admiration, his finger stroking my cheek like I’m not even real. “It’s neither protruded nor recessed, and the perfect SNA of an 83-degree angle.”

I’m about to ask what he means, but then he looks me in the eyes.

“Listen, I may not have known you long, but I haven’t ever found someone with orbital bones and a maxilla and mandible as perfect as mine. And even though you’re not a true Eve—no one is—But you’re as close as it gets. And I know with our genetics together—” He grabs my hands, intertwining his fingers with mine. “Our kids would be perfect.”

And with that, suddenly he lets go of my hand and gets on one knee. My eyes widen—is this actually happening?! I turn my gaze left to right as I see people start to pause what they’re doing and look.

“I may not know your first name, but will you take my last name?”

The DJ screeches the needle on the record and guffaws, "What do we have here? History in the making. Cupid's arrow has found its target. Whoooeeee!" Appreciative chuckles pop up around the room. About a dozen cell phones are pinned on this mad situation unfolding, hoping they will have the next viral clip.

Spluttering is a word that possibly describes my response. I clear my throat. Smile. Grimace. Look around the room. Laugh nervously. I barely eek out an "EXCUSE ME!" Five seconds of silence that are painful. The DJ, quickly thinking like they usually do, comprehends that this Romeo and Juliet moment is not playing out well, and he quickly says with forced positivity, "Aww, we got some shy ones here. Let's give the Lovebirds a little time to themselves." The next song sounds way louder than it should be and the rhythm of the party creeps back to its previous vibe.

My cognizance went from disbelief to just raw fight, flight, or freeze. I chose flight. This Ken-Doll looking weirdo spoke scientific hogwash to me, touched me, offered to father my children, and then proposed. Time to scram. I turned around, pushed past some small huddles of humanity and made a bee line for the front door. After the first 10 seconds of telling myself, "Get to the car. Drive to a safe and brightly lit location. Call my mom, my uncle, 911, my sweet cousin who listens to all my problems. Make a police report..." anger then crept into my mind. Who was this dude?!?!

I am 7 feet away from my light blue car with the dent in the left rear bumper. Old but reliable. I hear that creepy voice. Ken-Doll yells, "Wait! I'm sorry. Stop. Give me 10 seconds to explain. I am bad with words, and people. Can I at least introduce myself?"

This dude embarrassed me. He ruined my first night out in two months. However, now that he started talking kind of like a decent person, my selfish wish to meet SOMEONE, anyone, and move on after the break-up two months ago took over my better judgement. I paused. Looked him up and down and blandly said, "Go ahead."

"My name is Reginald Clay Harrow. I do research. It's groundbreaking. I have 64 skull molds with the zygomatic bone aligned almost 90 degrees with the lacrimal bone, and some have a maximilla almost as symetrical as yours. But heck! They are dead! They can't make any contributions to the Society's work. We are so close. We need LIVING participants. The potential is enormous. Medical miracles. Healing of genetic conditions. Plastic surgery breakthrough. Nobel prizes. Of course grappling with the ethical stuff, like designer babies, but we'll figure that out. It's already happening in Europe and ...."

"Listen, man. I am not a science geek. What do you want from me?"

He mumbles to himself, "I did it again. Reggie, you nitwit. Ask her her name, be normal." Deep breath. Eye contact. This guy is weird but crazy gorgeous. "Can I try this again?", he says looking kind of cute. "Hi, my name is Reggie. What is your name? Can we have lunch one day. I would love to hear about what you do for a living and I could tell you about my research?" A sweet, small smile follows this little speech.

"Give me your number and MAYBE I'll text you next week."