Over
She loved all kinds of flowers. Spiky, loud, colorful flowers, or soft, gentle, and pastel flowers, she adored them all. Her obvious distain towards Christian's dominantly gray apartment moved her to drown him in more flowers than any man would feel comfortable keeping. It wasn't that he didn't like color, he was apart of the bohemian revolution, he was nearly programmed to love beauty of every sort, but he'd find them in the oddest places. He discover them under his oak desk, inside small cabinets, and in his poorly cleaned shower. Satine couldn't help herself; she simply had to brighten up his dingy, dismal apartment, especially if he expected her to stay with him for more than five minutes.
She loved to steal his clothes. Even though she had elaborate, expensive dresses fresh from the Moulin Rouge, every morning she'd "borrow" his shirts (which were never returned). Once in a blue moon, a clothing item would be returned, but sleek red hairs would be stuck to the exterior of the once spotless fabric . Not once would he complain, he thought she was the most beautiful when wearing anything of his. It reminded him that she was with him because she wanted to be, while any other man she would see that day would not have the same feeling.
She loved to read. Numerous books were scattered on his worn wooden floors in several different languages. In her line of work, she needed to be able to speak to all sorts of people from all sorts of places. Christian had a perfectly usable bookshelf near the tattered sofa, but if Satine had a fault, it was that she thrived in clutter. She'd finish a novel within a day, quickly toss it across the room, and frantically search for a new one. Patience was not one of her virtues either, if she read one book in a series, she would ransack the apartment until she found the continuation. At first, Christian would urge her to be more gentle with the older additions, but he eventually learned to accept her unorganized nature, he even grew to smile at her impatience.
She loved to sing. Acting was her passion, but singing was her talent. Her voice would fill the bedroom every morning when she brushed her shiny red hair. They were different from the flashy, quick beats from the Moulin Rouge, but they were slow lullabies to calm not only herself, but Christian as well. He had never seen the world more at peace when she sang. It almost seemed as if the birds on the rusty balcony would stop forming their nests and hurriedly chirping to listen to her honey sweet voice. She was never a confident singer, so she rarely let him listen in, but every morning when she would sing, he would eavesdrop and lay still for hours to hear her songs.
The more Christian looked around at his apartment, the more he noticed how empty it was now. His apartment was once again dominantly gray and dull as it was before she came to stay with him. Silence was thick behind his chipped door, and the light that she had once brought with her was diminished. Satine inspired him in ways he still cannot understand. Without her, his once bright, young talent for writing had quickly turned into chore to produce and his empty typewriter proved it. He had lost his love and his muse to a cause he could do nothing about. The vases were empty, the flowers were gone, the story was finished, and her song was over.