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?”