Ritual.

They always come crawling, clawing back. Begging is not becoming but I am bound to relent, because I lack the strength to be steadfast and uncompromising. Whatever moral constructs are built can be quickly torn down if convenience necessitates it.

So, I conquer errant eye brow hairs with pink tweezers using 5x magnification, as if he is going to examine my face with a microscope. I sloppily paint my toe nails his favorite coral color, having neither the inclination nor the time to enlist a professional pedicure. Truth be told, I've never step foot in a spa. Maybe that's why our relationship failed. He likes high maintenance girls and I can barely be bothered to get my hair cut once a year.

I consider how to hide lingerie under sundresses. All of that corseting and lace up business seems far to constricting for 80 degree temperatures. If it were up to me, I'd just open the door naked. Garments specifically designed for the purpose of being removed never had any practical appeal for me.

I count the forty-five minutes on the clock while my teeth are bleaching. Afterward, the contrast between the newly whitened teeth and my tan is somewhat comical. Strangely, I am anticipating his arrival at my door step. I like to think this has more to do with feeling wanted than it does wanting him.