People have these habits, rituals; things they do every day like clockwork, because they give them a sense of comfort, of control. Most people don't notice their own habits, much less other people's . I don't either. Except for hers. I have her rituals down by heart.
She twists her hair when she's nervous; once, twice, three times around her finger, before pulling it out and letting the makeshift curl spring back into place.
She stretches each morning, after she wakes up, bending her arms up and behind her neck. She arches her back, her toes curl, muscles taut (and I think it might be one of the sexiest things I've ever seen), then sinks back down and pulls her arms straight, the fingers of her left hand tracing lightly over her cheek bone.
She looks at herself in the mirror right after she gets out of the shower. She stares at her bare figure, dripping with water. Not in a conceited way, not in a disgusted way. She just looks. For only a few seconds, though, before turning away, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her body. She walks away.
She presses her face into the pillow- still lingering with the scent of her perfume, lavender and honey- after we've just had sex. The blanket is pulled up around her, tucked under her arms, as we lie there. She hides the side of her face into that pillow, like she's shy all of a sudden, and blinks slowly, almost bashfully. She lifts her shoulder up to her mouth, bites gently, barely hard enough to even feel it, and smiles before pulling me into a kiss.
She plays the piano when she's sad; presses her fingers down on black and white keys, making a melody that will say all that she can't. She cries, tears sliding down her face, over her lips and onto her hands. She pauses for a moment, looking at the tiny drop on her knuckle before it slides off and onto a key, leaving a barely visible trail on her skin. She starts again, pressing her pinky on the key, spreading the tear across the shiny white surface as she plays. She tries to hold back the sobs, tries to keep the music up, in hopes that it will somehow keep the sadness at bay. She plays until she can't hold it back anymore and takes her hands from the instrument, buries her head in her arms and finally lets go.
She's a mess, a complete, goddam mess. And she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.