On the bad days, the back side of her is all he can remember: A supple curve; a proud, bared shoulder; a flash of gold before she vanishes back into shadow. You know how dwarves are about their gold.
Her retreating form. A fading, half-seen smile. Fifteen years of goodbyes, and see you soons, and until next times, but never so much as an "I'll miss you". They're not the sentimental sort. She isn't, at least.
He hates to watch her go but he loves to watch her leave. No, that's a lie. He hates both, and he always has. But she's always leaving, always gone. Always turning away, just out of reach. Never truly his, but then again, that means he's never truly hers, either.
Right. Another lie. And she knows it, all too well.
You take what you can get with her, that's just how it is, and it leaves you pathetic and grateful for a lifetime. But on the bad days, he can't even remember enough to find comfort in her memory, so he has to make her up until he does.