Priscilla fussed with her hair. Of the 20 or so products that she had saved her money for and had carefully assembled, she’d curated five for this evening’s dance. Designed to tame her curly masses in the June humidity, she applied one after the other with great assiduity. Determined not to feel like the dowdy girl no one wanted to go with, she had bravely asked Len, the current target of her longing, to the dance. With only two hours left until he would ring the doorbell, she decided to move next to applying the base layers of makeup and to prepping her nails for polishing.
Len was tearing down the driveway on his bike when his mother called after him, “Don’t be gone long, you need to get cleaned up for the dance.” He waved to indicate he’d heard and to dismiss her caution.
Priscilla, fatigued by her pursuit of perfection, had managed to complete the topcoats of makeup, and had applied a fire engine red polish on her nails. With only an hour to go, she was just about to apply the final spray to keep her hair from moving when her mother knocked on the door.
“Can I help dear?”
“There’s nothing for you to help with Mom! Go away.”
Len ripped up the driveway, dropped his bike on the lawn, and entered the kitchen with thirty minutes to spare. He quickly showered, then applied a coat of body spray designed to create headaches and spoil the taste of food. Barely dry, he jumped into the clothes laid out on his bed, grumbling at the buttoned shirt and stiff dress shoes.
Priscilla wiggled carefully into the dress she had selected as the most becoming for this evening. Weighed down by layers of product that she did not want to disturb, she moved stiffly. She looked one last time in the mirror and attempted a smile which came out as more of a grimace, such was her fear of disturbing the underlayers or clotting the surface powder. She picked up her phone, puckered her lips in a garishly provocative and wholly age-inappropriate way, and took the treasured selfie.
Len looked in the mirror as he tousled gel into his hair. It had a habit of doing its own roguish thing. He smiled, flashing his pearly whites, and took a selfie. On his way through the kitchen, his sister and mother slowed him down.
“My charming boy,” his mother crooned, adjusting his tie and collar, and attempting to redirect the cowlick on the crown of his head. His sister fixed his boutonniere and handed him the refrigerated corsage to carry. Len, covering for his delight in being fussed over, insisted they stop.
“Enough already. It’s only Priscilla.”
“Don’t fidget,” Priscilla’s mother admonished her as they waited together for the doorbell to ring. Priscilla frowned, her brow furrowed. “Your face could get stuck that way,” her mother proffered, not yet done with supporting her daughter. Priscilla sighed a sigh for the ages and prayed that Len would rescue her soon.
Ruth is an emerging writer from Ottawa, Canada. Her work has appeared in Bywords.ca, The Globe and Mail, Haiku Canada Review, This Land (Ottawa Independent Writers), and Dreamer’s Creative Writing.