She: You look like a Greek worrier with your discolored exclusively-indoors shorts and your socks in the color of "killing the passion" (blue with red)
He: ...and you look like a Victoria Secrets model in your unisex, oversize hoodie.
What happen with those times when she would would run to the bathroom in the early am to check out the flaws and lightly cover them with the most invisible powder (aiming for a natural look), touching the cheeks with fresh-morning-pink blush, while he would brush his teeth with menthol; they'd meet in bed: Morning, babe!
"Morning!" was 5 minutes ago when I woke up and did my hair so you'd think that I slept in an expensive salon (messy-sexy look) from where I could still hear your snores. Miraculously. And "Morning!" was before you ate half of mint (is it tree or bush?) tree so now you smell fresher than 2 packs of chewing gum.
What's next? Stealing his blade from his bathroom to shave your legs, and, naturally, peeing with the door open? And you know that is the end! But we must work in an infrastructure that neither collapses into vulgar-mechanical nor slides into purity of adolescence. We pee (and that's not the most shameful thing in the world, but we shouldn't make a public exhibit out of it) and socks are comfortable in the house (outside the bed, for we are not 18 and in a summer camp in the mountains)
End of dating, that is. Or the end incontestably started with the Victoria Secrets comment...?