I take the dress out of the bag upstairs in the bathroom. He is downstairs getting himself together, shaving his face, never has to touch his hair because it is always so lovely-bountiful brown lush curls-he always looks like he stepped out of a Renaissance painting. I can smell his spicy cedar cologne dancing up the steps, creeping under the door as an invitation for me to come down and play. I cannot wait to float on down. The color of my dress is blush pink-just like in the pictures. The shoulders are sheer and puffy and the sleeves are sleek, silk and lace with gems of pearls glued throughout. The dress is ball gown style, flowing with layers of more pink lace from my cinched waist. I am so in love with it, and it slides over my head easily. Fits like a charm. I curl my hair so I look a little like Shirly Temple, and I powder my face, redden my lips and cheeks. I curl my lashes and spritz myself with vanilla. I am his sweet cake tonight. I hear him call my name, and I walk out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. There he awaits, at the bottom holding his hand out for me to take. He looks stunning. Like an old time movie star-Charlton Heston, is it you? I chuckle to myself. I can tell he loves the way I am dressed as well by his smile. His eyelids lower a bit too, like when the back of a dogs ears are being scratched. I take his hand and into the kitchen we glide. He pushes a button on the CD player that is sitting on the counter, and "This Magic Moment" by Jay and the Americans starts playing. He puts his hand on my back and pulls me into him tightly, our chests pressing against each other. We slowly dance in circles, sometimes clumsily stepping onto each others toes, and laughing, but all the while never breaking eye contact. This is a magic moment, because a couple of months prior I was bedridden and could not walk. A couple of months ago, he cried on top of me, while my body seized, and I thought I would never dance with him again. And here we were, dancing like a king and queen in the middle of our kitchen as if it were our grand ballroom.....during a quarantined Valentines day.

" This magic moment

So different and so new

Was like any other

Until I kissed you"-This Magic Moment

I wasn't even allowed to drink in January because my friends and I had declared it "dry January." I was bored and sadly sober one night when I saw that a literary journal I sometimes submit to had submissions open for their March issue. Free of charge, just send the editor an email.

I wrote in my new crooked, fragmented style - something I hadn't published on Prose, because it has to be previously unpublished. I laid out my childhood and my awful ex-boyfriend like they were being hung out to dry.

I couldn't have even summarized what I had written after the fact, I had submitted it close to midnight and am usually forgetful of what I write anyway. Something about trauma, etc. etc.

7:54 a.m yesterday: an email from the editor. 'It is our pleasure to inform you...'

Wait, what?

Sipping coffee slowly, and then more quickly. This was my second submission to a publication outside of Prose since the year started.

Perhaps no one had submitted?

It feels good to be recognized, as mortified as I am that I laid my past bare, a midnight submission I had emailed for the hell of it. Now it will be spelled out to the world, trauma and my name together, separated by only a comma.

You never know until you try.