Ted Hughes

He got out of his bed,
maneuvered around the piles of clothes and books that littered his room, and went to his closet to get dressed.
He stretched in front of the mirror, admiring his toned body. More defined than toned, really. He flexed his muscles, one at a time. Arms, pecs, back, legs. He inspected himself, noting areas for improvement. Still stark naked, his manhood hanging limp but still impressive, he seemed the picture of masculinity.
After many long, silent minutes in front of the mirror, he dressed and headed to the bathroom.
He took good care of himself. He meticulously washed his face, brushed his teeth, and flossed (and who actually flosses anymore?).
He was tired, but probably more hungry than tired, he noted.
He reentered his bedroom obliviously, thinking about this, put on his shoes, and walked back out the door.
As he sat at a table in the cafe with his late-night sandwich, he thought about his academic life. Like any college student, he was struggling with his major, his career path, and his grades. He loved to sit and think about his life like this. His phone vibrated in his pocket with a call, but he silenced it without looking at it; he didn't want to be distracted from his thoughts.

Back in his room, she wistfully hung up the phone without leaving a voicemail. He'd been gone over an hour and she had a feeling he'd forgotten that she was still there. Oh well. He'd come back eventually. She would wait. She would always wait. Because in the end, he'd have to come back.