"Lamentation"
He complained. It was a terrible habit, and they both knew it – matter of fact, and she enjoyed the little bit of irony here, he often complained that he complained. He lamented that it drove people away, that it made him seem like an asshole – but it was just such an ingrained habit at this point that it would take an enormous force of will to stop.
He complained even of things he liked. He'd always say that his haircut was too short even as he surveyed himself in the mirror, leaning his head from side to side with a tiny smile playing about his lips. He'd always be careful to say too short, too, for fear that someone would offer to take scissors to his head to solve the problem.
Or he'd complain of a wine even as he tipped his chin up, eyes half-lidded, tracing a long finger around the lip of his glass until it rang and he snapped from his reverie, hastily covering the crystal and complaining of his rudeness.
His complaints weren't lies, though, or at least not just lies. Frequently, they were in regard to quality of work. Reports were reviewed by a startlingly critical eye, a hand hardly sparing in writing responses. It was paradoxical, really, but he wished for perfection.
He'd stopped complaining of Riza after their first night. Damndest thing. He hadn't hesitated to tell her, before, what she'd done wrong, but now he handled her like an ancient text, decayed and half a breath from crumbling. She'd told him that if he wanted to avoid conspicuousness, he'd go on like before. He'd avoided her gaze, and she couldn't help but be both irritated and charmed by his sentimentality.