She annoys me sometimes. Not all of the time. Just on occasion. Right now, for instance. Weâ€™re already late, and she just decided she needs to change her dress. She doesnâ€™t say it, but I know this obviously entails picking out new shoes, new earrings, a new bracelet, and most likely the removal and reapplication of eyeshadow in an appropriate color. I quietly add 5 minutes onto our departure time for each item I check off in my head. If I want to be honest with myself Iâ€™d add 10 for the dress itself, but Iâ€™ll try to be optimistic. Itâ€™s kind of funny watching her wash off her makeup as she prepares for a new coat. Itâ€™s like seeing my generally beautiful girlfriend get 5% uglier right before my eyes. I know thatâ€™s not a nice thing to say, nor a fair one, and Iâ€™ll keep it to myself, but I meanâ€¦ I am thinking it. Sheâ€™s still gorgeous but sheâ€™s lost her polish. Sometimes I wish sheâ€™d just stop wearing the stuff in general. Sheâ€™s a natural beauty anywayâ€¦ may as well let it shine. I was wrong. 15 minutes and 37 seconds to pick out a new dress from the moment she turned on the closet light to the moment she looked in the mirror and said, â€œThis one.â€ I know because Iâ€™m keeping my massive and growing annoyance in check by watching the hands of the vintage RC Cola clock go round and round. I like it more than watching my wristwatch. I remember the day we picked that clock up. It was at a flea market in Wisconsin. Iâ€™m surprised she wanted it. She doesnâ€™t even drink soda. What a sucker for vintage-looking stuff. Itâ€™s like her and her friends are engaged in an unending, unspoken contest to populate their apartments with the most salvation-army-type shit. Donâ€™t get me wrong, those things do look cool. Itâ€™s just odd. And I do like that clock. That was definitely a good day, the day we got that clock. I wasnâ€™t annoyed with her that day. I donâ€™t think ever, back then. Not like now, impatient as I watch her carefully (read: slowly) put new makeup back on. I will say Iâ€™m shocked that I was wrong. New earrings look less than a minute. I give her my first genuine smile of the evening, and she returns it with a sheepish one that says, â€œI love you, I know youâ€™re annoyed, just give me a few more minutes, and Iâ€™m sorry that I made us late.â€ That damn smile, it just melts me. How does she do that? Now Iâ€™m stuck at a midpoint between being really ticked off and thinking about how much I care about the little hottie that just uglified and rebeautified before my eyes. Itâ€™s really easier to like pretty people, isnâ€™t it? Then again, when a pretty girl is making you angry and trying to act nice about it, all you can think is, â€œbitch, just because youâ€™re hot doesnâ€™t mean youâ€™re above pissing me off.â€ Iâ€™m thinking myself in circles now. OK, thank god, weâ€™re ready to roll. Almost an hour late now, and entirely her fault. I take a deep breath, standing on the stoop while she locks the front door. Itâ€™s not terribly refreshing. New York City smells like garbage and food scraps on a hot summer night. Finally, time to roll. As I take her left hand in mine to escort her down the steps to the street, she stumbles. I catch her and steady her, and even before she said it a moment later, I knew she had broken a heel. She curses as she starts back up the steps to our apartment. I shake my head imperceptibly back and forth as I glance down at my watch, then start up after her.