I stare at my fingernails in an awkward kind of wonder. They feel weighted down and heavy, as though they're covered with lead. Colors distract my eyes and mind from whatever it is you're saying now. I can't stand it. I start to chew it off.

You say, "No, no, stop." And you pull my fingers away from my mouth. I stare at you and wonder just how I look, compared to you. But then I remember how self-centered that probably is.

"See?" I say, "I won't be able to leave it." You laugh and say it takes some getting used to, but that in no time I'll want them colored all the time. I nod but don't believe you. The polish is already chipped and uneven and I will not, will not be able to stand it.

You leave the room and I'm back at chewing my nails. Half-dry polish sticks to my teeth and I use my tongue to clean them off. I lick my sleeve to get the color out of my mouth. The cloth is rough against my tongue, and when I look back at it, wet, red flakes are shocking against the black.

As you come back in, I wipe my lips before placing my hands in my lap guiltily. The shocking smoothness of the polish is ruined now, and I know you know by the sigh and roll of the eyes.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask and I shrug because I don't know. I've never known and I doubt I ever will. I run my fingertips over what color remains on my nails as you sit next to me. The rough edges of the chipped spots feel so different from the usual smooth and I can't stop my fingers as they drift over it again and again. My mind stretches and shrinks, but remains concentrated on that feeling. You wave your hand in front of my face.

"You're not even listening, are you?" There's false anger in your voice and I smile sheepishly and shake my head. It would be pointless to deny it. You flop over my lap and I blink down at your pouted lips and closed eyes. I see all your perfections and imperfections and I love them a little too much, I realize.

My hands slide through your hair and you mumble something I can't quite understand. I make a small noise anyway, hoping it will keep you here, and you stay. I keep shaking my fingers through your hair and you start to smile. I smile because you smile, and I feel so content that I couldn't imagine moving from this spot because the moment feels so wonderfully, perfectly calm.

But you're up before long, saying something, and it's all I can do not to sigh as you prance off. You're not content with just staying still with me. Maybe it's too close, or maybe you can't stand sitting still with someone else for so long, or maybe I just don't know. Maybe I could never guess.

No matter what, I watch as you move about, chatting about this and that, and I see those perfections and imperfections, and I know that I love them too much.

I don't mind loving them too much, though, because everyone has to love something too much, and I can't think of anything else I'd rather love.