Much, much longer than a drabble. I'm sorry.
A SWEET DISORDER
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distractión,—
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,—
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,—
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,—
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,—
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
- Robert Herrick
The thing is she looks prickly. And plastic. Everything about her is so…calculated. It must be exhausting; all that posturing, pouting and powder. Never a single run in her stockings. Never a single hair out of place.
He sits beside her on the dock. The wind is strong and whipping her perfect hair completely out of sorts. She removes her hairband and begins to use her long, white fingers to comb the strands back into submission.
His frustration with her vanity is unexpected. Before she can replace the garishly yellow hairband, he grabs her hand tightly to stop her, and she cries out in surprise.
"Leave it," he says, his voice catching in his throat.
She doesn't know how beautiful she is early in the morning before she's had the chance to put all her armour back on, or in the evening when it's all but worn away. She doesn't know that, since his return, just the scent of her is often the only thing that reminds him that the sun continues to rise and set.
The pupil of his left eye swells, eclipsing its garnet ring. He's afraid his knees might give out. He's afraid she might stop him. But she doesn't. She lets him kiss her. He's not surprised to discover that, beneath the hard shell of the red varnish she paints her lips with, they're soft.
His hands open across her back, fingers curled into her flesh hard and deep enough that it feels like he might pull her apart to tear the devil's wings right out of her. The wings she's been hiding herself behind all this time.