It Looks Like You're Writing A Letter

She had the most annoying of ways. She spoke too loudly, and always before thinking. She was a messy, sloppy, hopelessly awkward person. In the mornings she would pad around the kitchen for ages, naked from the waist down, putting off getting her day started for as long as she possibly could. She had the most disturbing habit of laughing at her own bad jokes, days and days still after telling them. She could never shut up. Her view on the world was highly doubtable, yet she clung to it as manically as the most fanatic of believers. Her singing could bring tears to crows and make small children run away and hide, and yet she was constantly humming. Her morning breath was simply terrible. She chewed gum, and popped the bubbles loudly, even though she knew how rude it was. Years had passed since she last saw a movie without pausing it at least twice, simply because she could not bring herself to sit still for more than 30 minutes at the time. She was late, always late, and never for good reasons. She was as lazy as they come, and could put off chores for weeks, even if they clearly needed doing. Her teeth were bad, and her skin had lost most of the elasticity it once had. She had cellulite, and her toes were freakishly long. She was a careless driver. She fell down a lot, and never looked twice before stepping out into the street.

Yet he was in love with her. All her flaws, all her madness, he was willing to forgive. Willing to look beyond, willing to accept. She would have been perfect. But she loved him, and for that he could never forgive her.