the night of the world cup final

Alone in my room, 9.40 PM. Boyfriend was gone out with the boys, having some beers they said before watching the world cup final at the town square. My feet were itching of the foot cream after waxing. The sublime irony of the pain and the beauty. They looked beautiful, hairless, smooth, smelled nice of lavender and mint, the smell of my foot cream. I love the look and the smell of it. Only he didnt notice.
If only he would notice. If only he would say something. It was too trivial, I guess. His girlfriend newly hairless feet, with the sweet smell of lavender and mint. How would he possibly know that there were indeed several strands of hair were gone from his girlfriend's feet? That’s just too absurd.
But at least he could say something about the hair? His girlfriend's newly dyed hair. Dark cobalt blue. Just been dyed this morning when he was once again out finishing his work in the office. It's Sunday, and he's not even home all day. He ought to know that Sunday is my only day off. Having to work from ten to seven every single day from Monday to Saturday, he ought to know that Sunday is my only day to enjoy myself all day. And when it comes to enjoying something, I always want to share it with the one I love. It's him the one I love and it's me I want to share.
But he's been out all day and this Sunday I was alone enjoying myself.
Funny how the word 'enjoying myself' sounds very much quite similar with the word 'lonely' when he's not around.
I made myself some coffee. Black, as usual. Past the mirror when I went back to my room with a cup of coffee in my hand. I took a quick glance and realized that the color of my hair was not that different from before. There was a vague sheer of dark blue gleaming subtly. But that was it. No wonder that he didnt notice.
I sipped my coffee while carefully choosing the book that I wanted to read for the night. Old Lewis Caroll's Through the Looking Glass. When the emotion's sprinkled here and there, mixed up in disarray, you would want to read something surreal.
Maybe it's true that I was too melodramatic, but I missed him, fucking chronically.
And of all the days in the world, this sappy feeling came at the night of the world cup final, where everybody in this fucking world was busy fussing about Zinedine Zidane, Gennaro Gattuso, Francesco Totti, Thierry Henry, blafblafblaf. Of course nobody would notice about some girl's newly dyed hair, or her hairless feet that smell really really nice.
Or how I would really love to share myself that night.

-sie-

Ps: all the setting and the characters were made up. Any similarity with the real life would just be a coincident.