I like to pluck the hairs out of his eyebrows in the morning. I keep my pink rubber gripped tweezers beside the bed waiting for the special day every few weeks where he let’s me groom him. With my puffy eyes and morning breath I lean over his face and rest my arms in unusual placements on his face, angling his brows into the light so that I can remove every baby hair that might cause a shadow in a place where shadows should not be. He winces in pain and I kiss his lips as payment for his discomfort. After being single for such a long time I see few benefits to being in a committed relationship, but this is arguably one of them. Surely I could find other men who would let me pull their hairs out and maybe they would even compensate me for it, but none of them would look as handsome and elegant, and none of them would love me like he does.