Same yoga pants different day

It was on their first date that he knew she was the one; the way she continuously combed her fingers through her overgrown blonde bangs, playing a sexy game of peek a boo with green eyes greener than any traffic light or dollar bill dropped from his wallet on champagne and caviar, watching her roll her tongue in ecstasy as he clung to her every word sincerely interested in topics that previously meant nothing to him, Louis Vuitton vs. Gucci, Bravolebrities vs. Kardashians, Hatha Yoga vs. Hot Yoga.

A spring and fall later a wedding bell rang out through the low to the ground clouds stuck in his head, when a listless winter’s frost planted a seed ripe at summer’s rise nine months later discovering legs parted with a cry and low and behold a miracle and more crying, and dishes, sleepless nights, overdue bills all leading to words unforgiving, when rolling over one morning he sees her still asleep in her stretched Lululemons, smelling of sour milk, unshowered with blonde tangled hair splayed on damp pillows and he thinks nothing other than, “Why doesn’t she get a damn haircut?”