He laid next to her, staring at her with nothing but unadulterated admiration in his eyes, and in his heart, with her mousey brown dishevelled hair that was sticking up in all directions after her tossing and turning. He watched her as she went through her morning routine. He could help being besotted with her, for he was entirely and irrationally in love with her. She would get up, with that sleepy dazed look in her eyes, and send an endearing smile his way. His stomach would flutter immensely as if a thousand butterflies were trying to escape his insides. Hesitant and heavy as she did so, she would advance to removing her bed clothes, which consisted of unadorned black underwear, usually put on inside out and an off white Adidas t-shirt; and get into the already running shower.
In these moments that she was gone from sight, he would lay there almost lost, yearning to see her gentle face yet again, as if he hadn't seen it in years. When she returns, he sleepily pulls her back under the covers for his last few minutes of embracing her faultless body before she leaves for work. Continuing her routine, she blow dries her hair and then proceeds to straighten it. She had always hated her natural urban curls, but he adored them. It reminded him of his hair when it was long, and often gave her a very innocent look about her, which he liked very much. He would watch as she moved all her hair in front of her face and straighten it so carelessly that she would always miss the back of her hair, leaving little kinks in the back. Each day, he would laugh and mention it to her, which she would always brush off with the same 'I'm tired' excuse. Taking the hairbrush from her tantalizing fingers, he would take a hair tie, and place her fair strawberry scented hair in a precise and professional ponytail. Due to her lack of a mother growing up, she had never quite learnt the ways of hair styling; which he didn't mind because it meant he could touch her in one of the most innocent ways he could, and feel helpful.
Craving moments like these all his life, where he could do even the simplest mundane task with his significant other, and count it as special as he did, he was momentarily content. Even through her mini tantrums, where she would be getting irritated by what to wear; even though her work provided her with a uniform, he would have nothing but affection for her. Being frustrated at her insecurities for her body, he would sometimes also get saddened for the reason that he wanted her to see herself how he did, the ideal depiction of beauty. The last thing he would get from her before she ventured off to her job as a waitress in a local cafe, was a diminutive kiss. So effortless, so irrelevant in many relationships, but this would be the one thing he could cling to until he could see her once again when she returned from work, and he would never let her leave without kissing her. Whether it be a passionate, sexual embrace with large amounts of moving tongues, or a small peck with a luminous smile afterwards, he would always turn to mush afterwards, as if he was kissing her for the first time. The door slamming shut would bring him back to reality. He was alone. Plain and simple. He no longer had the mist of love clouding his thoughts and he could get back to the only thing he was ever good at... hating himself.