Perfect
The sweetest perfection
To call my own
The slightest correction
Couldn't finely hone
The sweetest infection
Of body and mind
Sweetest injection
Of any kind
Depeche Mode
***
She had freckles, like cinnamon specks on her creamy skin.
They were all over the bridge of her nose and on her cheekbones; she tried so stubbornly to hide them, every morning, carefully applying her concealer. He liked to picture her as a little girl, corvine ponytails, pink ribbons and a myriad of mischievous freckles on her face: a sweet smile and a smartass glint in her eyes. He knew she hated the freckles, always the perfectionist, and she would smack him playfully when, at night, the moonlight shining on her pale skin and their entangled limbs, he would caress her cheekbone with a single finger, pretending to count them. She would shove his hand away, and he would kiss the bridge of her nose with the ghost of a smile. He didn't need to count them: in fact, he had each one of them printed in his memory.
***
She had a mole, on the roundness of her right breast.
Every time she wore one of her deep V-cut tops, he would shamelessly peek at her cleavage, not even trying to hide his fascination. He would search for his mole, and a lopsided smile would appear on his face. It reminded him, during the day, what happened the night before and was sure to happen the night to come (if he behaved enough; some days he would just have to enrage her, and they would yell, and scream, and hurt each other; her breathing would get heavier, her chest rising, her flesh flushing with anger and arousal. Those nights, he knew better than to knock at her door).
On good nights of sweet love, when her breathing evened and her eyelids closed, he would kiss his mole goodnight, nudgeting her breast with his nose, his warm breath on her. Then he'd circle her possessively with his arms, and pretend he is not a cuddling person in the morning.
***
She had a little scar hidden behind her left ear.
She was seven when she found a gruffy yellow cat; she took care of it, and while cleaning its wounds, it scratched her behind the ear, spilling blood. She didn't even flinch, or cry. She kept nursing it until it got better. She's had that cat for 15 years. He asked about the scar almost 20 years ago, the night before their endocrinology exam.
They were past the point of thinking, the words on the books blurry. He had abandoned his notes long ago, staring at her instead, and noticed the little, neat scar.
Twenty years later, he understand how that scar has become a monument to what she is; you can push her away, hurt her, deeply, but no matter what, she'll stand for you and save you despite of you. Because that what she does: she wins, and nothing and no one can ever stop that.
***
He left a hickey on her collarbone.
Ugly and purple and apple-shaped.
The morning after she freaked out, yelled, tried to cover it, yelled some more swearing she'd kill him, and then adjusted a white orchid on her dress that somehow hid his little handiwork. She smiled at her own reflection, while managing to glare in his general direction, and headed out of the room 'Don't you dare being late.'
***
It rained on their wedding day; her hair were dump, her skin glowed, her eyes sparkled.
He smiled, goofily.
She was the very image of perfection.
Fin.