It's been a week since they moved in but he still hasn't put up the mirror. Even though she's asked him to. Twice. Even though he's been home.
So when she asks him if she looks okay on her way out to office, he pays attention. Puts down his book. Studies her carefully, taking in the impossibly high-heeled shoes, the long black skirt, the flawless creases of the shirt flaring out from the waist to meet the swell of her breasts, the discreet neckline, the tiny kiss of a diamond in each ear, the carefully brushed hair. Eyes still on her, he gets up off the couch, goes over to where she's standing by the door, pushes back the one tendril of hair that's fallen loose and says "You look beautiful."
She doesn't buy it. "No, really", she says, giving him that look of tender exasperation one reserves for idiot children and inappropriately affectionate boyfriends. He maintains eye contact. "Really", he says, putting all the sincerity he can muster into his voice.
He is surprised to find that he means it.
This time she believes it too. She straightens her collar one more time, just to prove him wrong, then grabs her briefcase and heads out of the door.
He goes back to the couch, but he's lost his place in the book. He decides he may as well put the mirror up. That way maybe tomorrow she'll let him read in peace.