It was not her heart, that thick muscular organ involuntarily pulsing with the incessant rhythm of a traveling mariachi band. No, it was not her heart.
It was not her brain, the gelatinous mass of coiled spaghetti packed with blinking neurons that told her how she felt and provoked her activities. No, it was not her brain. Nor was it the internal organs, or even the external flesh that had me preoccupied with my new discovery. It was, in fact, the chocolate smeared across her lips and a fraction of her cheek. Like a careless brush stroke of an otherwise perfect portrait, it sat there calling attention to itself and the owner whose face it resided on. Do I tell her theres something on her face, a friendly tip from an anonymous stranger? Or do I look away and pretend I didnt notice? The question always puzzled me. Normally I would offer any helpful advice or assistance I could, but something about the chocolate, the way it articulated a careless human flaw to a perfectly angelic face seemed an altogether poignant and necessary balance. I think, in fact, it was the smeared chocolate that decided our fate. Had there been no smudge I would have merely moved on in stunned silence- how a girl could be so painfully beautiful- and, with dispassionate reverence, chalked it up to another wonderful anomaly, like a glorious and fading sunset, feeling no need to try to save or preserve, or even to understand it. But that artful dash, the feverish excitement with which it must have occurred, left me with no choice but to remark on the mark.
Excuse me, I said, but you have a particular line of chocolate drawn across your face.
Presupposing a look, perhaps surprise, or an embarrassed smile, I watched for a reaction. But then it was me who was confounded into silence when she replied, Quite so, and upon my cheek it shall remain.
It was not her brain, the gelatinous mass of coiled spaghetti packed with blinking neurons that told her how she felt and provoked her activities. No, it was not her brain. Nor was it the internal organs, or even the external flesh that had me preoccupied with my new discovery. It was, in fact, the chocolate smeared across her lips and a fraction of her cheek. Like a careless brush stroke of an otherwise perfect portrait, it sat there calling attention to itself and the owner whose face it resided on. Do I tell her theres something on her face, a friendly tip from an anonymous stranger? Or do I look away and pretend I didnt notice? The question always puzzled me. Normally I would offer any helpful advice or assistance I could, but something about the chocolate, the way it articulated a careless human flaw to a perfectly angelic face seemed an altogether poignant and necessary balance. I think, in fact, it was the smeared chocolate that decided our fate. Had there been no smudge I would have merely moved on in stunned silence- how a girl could be so painfully beautiful- and, with dispassionate reverence, chalked it up to another wonderful anomaly, like a glorious and fading sunset, feeling no need to try to save or preserve, or even to understand it. But that artful dash, the feverish excitement with which it must have occurred, left me with no choice but to remark on the mark.
Excuse me, I said, but you have a particular line of chocolate drawn across your face.
Presupposing a look, perhaps surprise, or an embarrassed smile, I watched for a reaction. But then it was me who was confounded into silence when she replied, Quite so, and upon my cheek it shall remain.