Trying to win him over. Trying to prove your love, your loyalty.

Beneath him. Bowing down. Praying your subservience is enough.

Enough to compel him
Enough to move him
Enough to galvanize him

His body responds lovingly. Or is it lustfully? Several times.

Yet his interest wanes with the newness. He gives less and less, curious to see how little he can give. How little you’ll accept, while he still gets.

Apparently, very little.

He gives minuscule amounts of attention. Affection. “Love.” So long as it’s poorly defined.

He’s amused — you’re gleeful just from his crumbs.

And then…

The sensation of this conquest wears off. He’s reminded of how Common you are. No different than the woman before you. Or after.

Shoes in hand, socks on his feet, he gently, softly tiptoes away. Hoping his absence is sufficient explanation for swiftly slinking out of your life sans drama.

Your emotions, clothed in a hooded black robe take you by the hand and lead you down a dark spiral staircase. Anxiety then takes the lead, transforming your feminine softness into a thin sheet of ice.

Brittle
Hard
Easily cracked and broken

You’re begging for his attention, desperation dripping off every cloying word. Pleading with your eyes. You speak without saying anything. The silence is stunning.

He’s not surprised.

Common women speak in tones of flattery, supplication, and artless demands & toddler-tantrums.

It’s too shameful to speak of their meager, pathetic standards, knowing they’ll immediately abandon them for the first tall, dark, handsome stranger who paints masterpieces, whole universes, with his words. And lonely stick-figures with his actions.

He knows the type of woman that he’ll end up with. And there’s nothing Common about her.

She’s obviously a Duchess.

Not because of her family. Or wealth. Or status. Or beauty.

It’s her energy. Her essence.

Her high-standards are known. But if they aren’t met, there’s no tantrum on the floor like a spoiled child. She communicated them with crystal-clarity. They aren’t breached again.

For her, he’s forced to rise. Her essence requires it. Her words provide direction. He does so eagerly. Happily. And quickly — lest a better Prince comes along and tries to win her over. Though he would fight to his death for her.

For him, it could only ever be her.