The Ritual

It was her ritual, and no one on God’s-green-earth could make her skip it. Not once, not for a single day. He didn’t mind, though. He enjoyed it, actually. Watching her pick up each brush in succession, swirling the matching color palette and applying it to her near-perfect skin. Well, she thought it was only near-perfect; he was of a different opinion.

It didn’t matter because he liked watching the deliberate manner in which she held her eyeliner between her delicate fingers, carefully painting lines around the deep brown pools of her eyes. For those few moments, he did not exist; he could watch her unnoticed and discover something new. Like how she bit down on the corner of her mouth, so intent was her concentration. And the way her eyebrows disappeared into the curtain of her bangs as she brushed on eyeshadow. Every motion was elegant, every detail endearing.

“Are you getting ready, or are you going to sit there there til we’re so late my mother calls?” she asked, crossly.

Yep, absolutely endearing.

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