I stood there in the doorway, immobile and somehow indifferent. My attention was fixed upon her perfect legs, situated around my boyfriend's body. Her face was smooth and flawless even though it was buried in his, and in the protective fibers of my comforter. There wasn't a single scar, mark, or hair apart from her head on her body. She was the epitome of perfection with him. I don't know what color her hair actually was, but it was beautiful and full of volume. It changed shades as he ran his hands through it. Her feet weren't crusty, her nose was perfect in size and shape, her eyes were the brightest of whatever color they were, her skin was perfectly smooth and soft, her lips were full and pink, her legs were to her neck, her teeth were perfectly straight, her eyelashes were long and feathered, everything was so perfectly perfect. Everything fit together so snugly. I stood there in the doorway like an idiot. He didn't even notice me until I made an unmistakable whimper, a feeble protest at this flawless and inevitable union.

I walked out of the room with imperfect tears cascading down my imperfect cheeks. It was only then that I realized that it didn't matter who she was or what she looked like. She would always be perfect if she was with him and not I.