Not pretty enough, I told myself as I put back a perfect pair of jeans. Seconds later, someone picked it up.
As the lady walked out of the store, I eyed her paper bag with much longing. Indeed, we don’t realize how much something is worth until we lose it.
I have loved him but I am no longer the love-drunk teenager he knew while five years has done nothing to him. I just knew — it’s time to go.
They applauded. They said I am wise and brave and right.
I didn’t know being wise and brave and right hurts.
He gave me a one-arm hug and whispered, “Dear, you gained some weight.”
“Really? Thanks!” Finally, I’m finally getting back the curves I lost.
“Uh, honey, I don’t mean it in that way…”
I looked into him and realized he’s not kidding. It’s really probably time to let him go.
A stack of books, several piles of newly printed reviewers, an unsorted pile of returned exams, and multi-colored highlighters cover the table. Mid-sentence through the second paragraph of the ten-page essay due tomorrow, she stops typing and goes to bed.
She tucks herself in, chuckling, “Sleep is for the strong!”
“Ma’am, we’ll let your hair soak in the treatment. I’ll be back in an hour and a half.” Then off the stylist went, leaving me dangerously alone in front of this huge vanity mirror, forced to observe all my imperfections that she will need to fix.
Vanity mirrors are evil.
Waltzing, he sweeps her across the ballroom as I watch in envy. She is perfect.
It is probably rude to ask a girl to dance on her wedding day but I will do so anyway. After all, he has a lifetime to dance with her. This is my last chance.
Trying to be a grown-up is surely tough. There is a load of paperwork due soon and holiday party invites — deadlines versus temptations. I want to choose temptations.
The only consolation is, grown-ups drink coffee. I am going to get one myself right now.
Coffee warms. Coffee listens. Coffee understands.
He came home drunk last night with lipstick marks on his neck and collar. Thus, today I bathe in my perfume.
Tonight I will get my scent all over him and I hope she smells it. I hope she gets the message — lipstick marks cannot mark a territory; scent does.
She sits by the window, wondering if he sneaks into her window, too, at night. Does he have to knock? Or does she keep it open for him, just like she does?
She sighs at the sight of her forgotten window. But still she left it open — just in case.
Tall and svelte — check.
Sculpted arms — check.
Light brown eyes — check.
Sleek dark hair — check.
Sexy five o’clock shadow — check.
Purring baritone voice — check.
He ticks off all her boxes yet she feels nothing extraordinary. It must be true what they tell her — Ideal Guy is not always Mr. Right.