Nickol M. Enss is a 22 years old from Waterville, Maine. She's currently an English major at William Woods University.  She is the secretary of WWU’s Eta Mu chapter of Sigma Tau Delta and frequently writes for the Writer's Ink club on campus.

The Moment We Girls Look Forward To

I spent the day staring at my reflection in the full length mirror in my bedroom. I was trying to see if I could manipulate my facial expressions so that they would match Beverly Watson’s--a perfectly charming girl from my British Literature class at the University. I practiced smiling without showing my teeth, making sure to bend my face down while keeping my eyes facing up so that I appeared innocent, girlish and shy. I rehearsed the look over and over until I was confident that I had it nailed. I tied my hair back in a half pony tail, tried on 11 different conservative, yet tasteful, blouses until I finally settled on a salmon pink, silk blouse that had strings I could tie into bows on the shoulders. I matched it with a black knee cropped skirt and wore a simple heart shaped necklace to top the look off. I walked back and forth observing every shape of my body so I would know and feel what was Beverly Watson-esk and what was not. I rehearsed laughing with my hand covering my mouth and grinning with my eyes. I sprayed lilac mist on both my wrists and powdered my neck with talcum powder. Over and over again I examined my appearance from the front and the back.

At 6:30 pm I made my début. I walked down all 14 steps leading to the front room of the house listening to each solitary echo of heel hitting wooden stair and waited exactly five seconds before I opened the door after the doorbell sounded.

Let the evening begin…

He was such a gentlemen--young, dark, handsome. He wore brown shoes, khaki trousers, a white button up man shirt, matched delicately with a dark brown suede jacket. He opened the car door for me, pulled back my chair at dinner for me, bought the darkest, decadent red wine for me, and kept his eyes on me.

A piano man played tune after tune coloring the night a crisp, navy blue, like a marines uniform. The conversation was laced with compliments and poise. It was all going so perfectly. The food was delightfully savory--all by candlelight. Dessert was sensational, sweet and rich chased with sips of bold, robust coffee. I was sure he would ask--I had been playing Beverly so well.
We walked out of the restaurant with full stomachs, rosy cheeks and his hand on the small of my back. The city lights beckoned us to linger on its cobblestone streets. We passed window after window with purses, jewels, ravishing garments, brilliant home décor--The promise of all things domestic--all things divinely domestic.

We walked until we reached the car. I made sure to wait for him to let me in and make sure to not let it show how much I anticipated the end of the evening.

The car drove smooth, like riding on air, like moving over still water. The trees and stores and restaurants passed by, floated by. My heart pattered quickly, yet discreetly, as we arrived back to my small cottage style house.

As the car came to a stop he turned toward me and caressed my cheek. Heavenly.

“Jane, I have something I wanted to ask you.”

Finally! I gave him my best Beverly Watson smile, head down, eyes staring into his, gentle, caring, sparkling.

“Open the glove box,” He said, “go on…,”

I looked at the glove box, then back at him to build the suspense. Slowly, I reached for the button and let the glove box door fall. The dome light came on to reveal a tiny, black velvet box.

“Johnathan! What is this?” He leaned over and grabbed the box in both hands.

“Jane, love of my life, love of my world, will you marry me?” He pried apart the black velvet to display a fine, princess cut, one karat diamond ring. The question lingered in the air while his hungry eyes awaited my answer. I brought my hand up to my mouth and laughed, grinning with my eyes. I laughed and laughed and laughed, just as I had practiced-until a tear fell from my eyes- until a look of panic washed over his face. I opened the door, laughing into the night while my heels met the sidewalk, reached into my purse and pulled out a receipt from a cheeky place called the “Villager Motel,” along with a note on “Villager” stationary, hand written in impeccable cursive, “Thanks for a great evening, love always, your sweet Beverly,” and tossed them in the abandoned passenger seat. I calmly shut the door, let my hair down, shook it out, took off my heels one by one and made my way through my front door, locking it behind me.

I played the player.