I took one last drag of the cigarette before throwing it down. It was as if time was moving in slow motion as it hit the floor. I watched as the flame flickered lightly; it looked good on the avant garde autumn brown rug. For a second I contemplated the entire room being consumed in a red and orange fiery. He always said he admired art and such that could be felt. What's realer than the wonderful aroma of a penthouse in ashes? I stomped out the cigarette and walked to the bathroom. My face throbbed, my back ache, and my legs were feeble. My father always told my mother that love without anarchy is a love without passion and real love embodied passion. As I examined my face and watched the blood drip from my lip, I thought to myself "At least it's only a minor cut ". Once I had to wear shades for a week, countless concealer, and loads of foundation. I washed my face and slid on the lavendar dress that had been sitting on the bed. I pulled my hair back and covered my lips in Bobbi Brown Burnt Red lipstick, this was the only shade that didn't make me look like a hooker; that's what he would say. Most women dated men who could care less about their make-up so I considered myself lucky; he took interest in nearly every facet of who I was. As he entered the apartment, I could feel the cold air from outside. He stood there, sullen.
"You look pretty", he said flatly. I nodded and began to fasten my shoes.
"I'm sorry... sometimes my passion for you gets the best of me." He grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
I breathed deeply and succumbed to his arms. Dad was right---I touched my lip and smiled.
