Reborn was a player. Penelope realized that. He was a player and he was a good one. He brought home a different girl every time he came back, and they left around noon the day after, never to return. She watched them come and go, saw the things they had in common, found the "type" that seemed to appeal to her across-the-street neighbor. Racy dressers with too many curves and pretty 'I'm-all-looks-and-no-brains' faces. Women so completely the opposite of her. She wore conservative clothes, had average curves and her face was freckled, average and bespectacled. She was average. Or below average. She wasn't the type of woman who walked through Reborn's door.
She wanted to walk through his door and leave at noon the next day. She did! But she didn't want to be one of those one night stands Reborn constantly had, she didn't want to be a 'never to return', she didn't want to be one of the 'I'm-all-looks-and-no-brains' faces. So she couldn't. She couldn't even get close to that door, and she'd suffer, continuing to watch the bimbos walk in instead of her and leave at noon the next day, never to return. She'd suffer, continuing to watch Reborn smile at them in his charming way and lead them inside with the promises of pleasure he most definitely always kept. She'd suffer, continuing to watch as he shot that knowing look at her living room window, his instincts making him perfectly aware of her eyes on his form as he trafficked his whores through that door he always, always shut in her face.
And Penelope, despite her suffering, continued to watch because she'd do anything for a glimpse of that smile, a glimpse of those eyes, just so that she'd maybe, maybe dream that they were for her.