She was the epitome of perfection to me. I never realized I had a type until I saw her sitting in that bar, sipping that frozen strawberry margarita. The red of the drink stained her lips, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

She never noticed me.

She comes to this bar every Thursday night, at around 7pm. She hasn't missed a day since I started noticing her. Same drink every time, too. But she never talks to anyone and only ever stares into her icy alcohol concoction.

Still, she doesn't see me.

I finally spoke to her, and oh my god, her voice is like honey. It pours over me, soothing and sweet. I want to hear more but she's gotten up to leave. She doesn't come back, even though she said she was only going to the restroom.

That's okay. She's shy.

At least she noticed me.

She doesn't appear to want to talk to me, so I stopped trying. She always gives an excuse and leaves. Avoids me. Kind of hurts my feelings but I know she's just scared. She's definitely been hurt before. She keeps a healthy distance.

She just doesn't know how much I like her yet.

Today I went to her favorite park. She goes there on the weekends and reads under a big tree. Sometimes I just watch her for hours. The way her hair whips in the wind. The way her blue eyes scan the words on the page. The way she licks her lips when she reads something particularly interesting.

I know her so well.

It's been months but I've finally managed to get inside her house. I don't think she was expecting me, with a bouquet and box of her favorite chocolates. She didn't even realize I knew what her favorite chocolates were! But I'm observant. She'll see.

I'll make her see.

The reluctance has left her. She's given into me, and I can't stop smiling at her beautiful face. Her eyes are wide with fear, swelled with tears. She's fought for so long, I tell her, it's time to let go. Let me take care of you.

She cries. She screams.

She doesn't like the special bracelets around her wrists. But they're for her own good. I don't want her to hurt herself with all the fighting. She just needs to relax.

Everything will be fine.

You're a demon! — she cried to me, her makeup streaming down her rosy cheeks. Does she realize how terrible she looks right now? I'll accept it because I love her, but she really isn't holding up to expectations. Perhaps she's not as perfect as I believed.

I thought the others had only been practice. Leading me up to a perfect ending with you, my dear. But you are so disappointing to me. So worthless. You no longer have the eyes of an angel. The flow of your hair has gone, leaving dead strings. Those red lips are cracked and colored from blood, not margaritas anymore. I can’t stand the sight of you.

What happened to us?

It’s been a long week for the both of us, but I don’t think she sees just how much I do for her. It’s infuriating. Can’t she see that I love her? Why does she keep struggling against me? I told her to let go, she didn’t. I tried to make her and now she’s… imperfect. She tries to tell me that it’s my fault, that I ruined her.

Has she lost her mind?

She had another bout of screaming. God, she just kept on going and going. Like a dying animal! Horrid, I tell you. And man, shutting her up wasn’t easy. Though, it never is. I didn’t really want it to happen this way — our special moment. But she ruined it. God, she always ruins everything.

Not anymore…

I held her close. So close, I felt her breath on my skin. I loved the way her body pressed against mine, the shivers going up and down her spine. I felt the goosebumps enveloping her arms. I could smell her sweat, tangy with a hint of some generic flower scent. Her hair was a matted mess, and it disgusted me, really. Despite that, I pulled her ever closer. Harder.

A gasp escaped her mouth, the sound of broken up words slipping out, trying to formulate, trying to make sense in their shattered state. But they don’t to me. I think she may have said, why? As if I know. I know she regrets ever meeting me, and that only sends me into despair.

Closer. Harder.

She’s gargling now, a harsh sound. That voice of honey no longer exists. In its place is this — this horrid tune she’s playing. She just doesn’t know when to give up, does she? I wish she could have just let go. Why didn’t she let go?

Into her eyes, I gaze…

…as I press the blade into her stomach, closer, harder, deeper. To the hilt, at last. Her eyes convey so many mixed emotions to me: sadness, pain, anger, regret… but no love? No acceptance? No understanding? And she has the nerve to call me the demon? No, ma’am…

Her breath is jagged, few and far between. She’s still got tears flowing — she puts on a great show — but at this point, I’m pretty sure she’s not faking anymore. I mean, I understand it hurts, but it’s her own fault.

She just …

She wasn’t the one. She wasn’t.

But her — sitting across from me at the local burger joint — she might be something special…

Written using the the writing prompt from Lyrical Inspiration:

But you’ve got your demons, and she’s got her regrets.

(Brand New Person, Same Old Mistakes — Tame Impala)