She was a like a puzzle, a mystery he couldn't solve no matter how hard he tried, personalized for his eyes and his eyes only. He couldn't help but feel mesmerized by her eyes, those naturally light blue orbs that would enigmatically change color with each and every emotion she felt, or by her palms and how her crease lines seemed to shift when she clenched her fists in fury. Every little detail kept him awake at night, left him dreaming about the smallest crevices of her body so delicate and pure that he was sure nobody had ever laid eyes on such beauty. He was putty in her hands, so weak and ready to be manipulated at every chance she was offered, and the sad thing was - he knew it. He knew it but didn't care - she was his drug, his very own intoxicated heaven in which he could only fantasize of seeing again and again since their very first encounter. She was driving him insane. Utterly insane.
He often thought of her pulse. An elevated throb beating between her skin and his, bestowing the only true deduction he had ever been able to read of The Woman - sentiment.
Sentiment, a chemical defect found on the losing side.
Sentiment that, despite several attempts, escaping the memory of those dilated pupils would result in failure.