Acuity, n

There was a small almost-dent in the skin of your forehead, almost in your hairline. "Chicken pox scar," you had told me, and though I didn't know what that was exactly (I assumed that it was similar to Dragon Pox, though maybe less deadly), you felt the need to explain it to me.

I noticed then the way that you spoke, without really looking at me; all avoided eye contact and small gesticulations, so that you didn't draw attention to yourself. I had pointed it out to you once, and for a few weeks after that, you were keenly aware of what your hands were doing when speaking. I had felt regretful over that, and even missed it, but knew that it was never going to come back the way that it used to be. All too soon I was listening without really listening, and I think you knew, but it didn't stop you from barrelling on; though, a rosy colour bloomed from beneath your cheeks and flowed down to your neck, and possibly even further. I heard the breath that you released once you realised that my ignorance had crossed over into being a nuisance, and the snap that you added to your voice, still not ceasing the explanation of the fascinating Chicken Pox.

There was a birthmark at the top of your thigh shaped rather like a strawberry, though you just had to disagree; I liked to bite it as if it was one. Your top lip was much thinner than your bottom one, though having a plump bottom-lip wasn't a problem; it was arousing when you bit it and it was arousing when I bit it, but it made your overbite rather noticeable, to me. It was curious, considering that your parents were dentists, and something that I imagined you were particularly insecure about; I never pointed it out to you, and never would.

What you liked to call the "moons"(I informed you that the technical term was lunula, but that didn't change anything, and I suppose you were right; it was 'little moon' in Latin) on your fingernails weren't visible, and the nail polish on your toenails had been unchanged for months and was almost completely chipped away. There were five freckles on your face, none close to each other and none on the rest of your body (I had explored it that intensely), and you told me that it was because you had been kissed by fairies. I wondered why they hadn't kissed you anywhere else, or why they had stopped, but I was reminded that it only meant that there was more places for me to kiss and leave my own mark.

You thought that I was a nuisance when I didn't make the bed every morning, lining corner to corner up perfectly, even if we were only going to fall back into it and mess it up again less than an hour later. You didn't like it if my shoes, when I kicked them off, weren't neatly lined up, heel-to-heel in the hallway, next to yours. If I forgot to hang my coat or blazer up, you'd remind me of it for days. You could tell if I accidentally made your tea wrong, putting in a little too much milk and not enough sugar, and your lips would always pull down at the corner, but you'd continue to sip it until it was finished anyway. Everything in the house was always straight, perpendicular to each other, so much so that I had thought you had feng shui issues when we moved in together, but I see now that it surpasses that. You've made it look as if no one lives here, as if this is a show-home and not our home.

Eventually you had stopped talking, and though I had noticed, I had done nothing to confirm that I was aware that you had given up. Or finished.

With only a distressed exhale, you left the kitchen.