Two parallel rows of trumpeters would sound their horns upon her arrival. The mahogany doors would inch open in an anxious yet relaxed fashion. His stomach would tighten up into several small balls and begin bouncing around his insides as if they were kernels of popcorn suddenly springing to a fluffy new life. In she would come; the most gracious, delicate, and meaningful thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. He wouldn’t even notice the trumpeters – he would simply feel her beauty coming and zone in solely upon its approaching essence.

Her dress would be a pale sky blue; tight upon the upper torso so as to accentuate her daintily built physique, but with the bottom part of her dress coming down wide and directly to the floor so that she would have the appearance of gliding rather than walking. Her silken hair would be worn simple, as she always had it – gentle and straight, fluid and strong, the very tips lightly curling. Though every girl in the building would have had their hair labored over for several hours preceding the event, hers would be the most luscious in the entire crowd without her having to even slightly tamper with it.

She would need no corsage, no makeup, and no facades. To be honest, she probably would not require an elegant dress. She already outshined every description of the archetype of “angel” that has ever been used.

She would giggle and laugh and even hysterically wheeze at the witty things he would say. She would make Stella look like a line dancer when she decided to get her groove on as he would laugh at the sudden outburst of outgoing energy and pure delight he was witnessing. They would snuggle during a few of the slower songs, and perhaps even during some of the lively ones. This snuggle would not be one of lust, but one of mutual respect, passion, and most importantly, unyielding love – something the both of them were sure would last far beyond tomorrow morning. It was a love that would renew every morning, and if it weren’t the same as it was the day before, it would be more.

He would… he would… he would… if he could. Instead, there he sat, on his couch, watching a bad action movie while making loud and immature jokes with several of his good friends. There was no embodiment of grace having the time of her life with him. There was no dress, no snuggle, no person, no love, sitting there, with him, on his couch. Instead, he sat there in his own self-pity and dreamed about what it would have been like if he’d have been able to say the right things at the right times while, all the time, masking it with the guise of stupidity.

She was still here. Her very existence told him that there was still a chance. And yet, he had tried everything and still, nothing at worked. He wondered why it was that true love can be denied – wasn’t that against the rules, somewhere? What divided the “him” on the couch to the “him” that has now drinking punch while looking into her eyes and tasting absolutely no punch whatsoever? There was only one thing he could think of.

Time. It affected so much. He had a mature sense of what it is to love, but perhaps a juvenile way of expressing it. At the very least, she wasn’t ready for what he had to say. He prayed that time would change that. The day would come, he reassured himself, when she would realize that saying “I love you” is far from the worst thing possible.

So, his only logical conclusion was this. While the farmer may happily anticipate picking the crops, there must be crops ready to be picked – so although he is ready to love her, she cannot bear such a burden. And he will wait until that day, playing a character untrue to its bearer. He waits still, and not because logic demands him to, but rather because he can’t shake this image of a beautiful girl in a blue prom dress… Personal Narrative: Prom Potentials 1

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