Marisol? Not mine.
No infringement intended.
So haiku disclaims.

(Because this has been kicking around since at least July, and at present my Muse is whining and stamping her feet, holding all new ideas hostage until I release the old ones. Inspired by magnetic poetry word "equality")

Ephemeral Beauty

Sometimes in the mornings, when she awakens in her empty bed, she gets up to look in the mirror and wonders what Horatio sees in her. She's pressed a reluctant Eric for information about his past girlfriends until she can paint his type – a smart, career-driven woman; a lawyer, or at least something in law enforcement.

Marisol's biggest worry, outside hospital walls, is whether she's mastered the newest pose in yoga.

She's a pretty woman, of that she's well aware. Once upon a time, she used her looks to her advantage, flirted and flaunted her way though life. But she won't have those looks much longer; eventually even her best makeup won't be able to hide the ravages of cancer. Will he still love her then? Will her love her when her skin discolors, when her hair grows thin or falls out entirely?

Common sense tells her he will. Something else tells her that love and loyalty are separate entities, and that he'll stay out of loyalty longer than anything else.

If all she has to offer is ephemeral beauty, is it a fair relationship?