Her morning bedside table consists of a fully-charged phone, a fresh steaming cup of coffee, and fragments of her attire from the night before. Time doesn’t matter when she’s with him. He shut the blinds for her the night before, because he wants her to rest, and the sunrise will wake her earlier than she deserves.
She has dreams because she sleeps so well next to him. He makes sure she has enough covers, and that the fan is on at the right speed. Perfection.
He is not perfect, of course. No one is, right?
But, he is perfect to her. What did she do to deserve this? The way he looks at her, she feels how lucky she is. He says all of the right things, he makes all the right moves, at all the right times. She’s never felt so happy, so secure, so in love.
She wakes up, and he is not there. She is in her room and she knows she doesn’t own a bedside table.
She wakes alone.
He was too perfect.