I’ve always found a light shade of summer freckle on a man to be an attractive feature. Pair that with an effortless baseball cap and I’m probably halfway to love.
It’s as if I’ve formulated this notion that if you’re a freckled man, you’re an approachable man, you’re a good man; worthy of my planting a kiss on the impression the sun has left on you.
If only all that were true.
“Do you always keep your toothbrush in the shower?” She asked, noticing that this was the second time in a row this had happened.
“No, that’s one of the bad things about me.”
“That you forget it in there?”
She didn’t think that was quite so bad.
The nails are always the first to go. They peel and fall away until you decide to eventually cut them off and start from scratch.
And then you watch them grow. Eventually you think, these are definitely longer than when we said goodbye. You take care of them. They grow strong.
Someone comments on them. You then stare at them all day, admiring your work and their strength. They’re perfectly even. All the same length.
Then one breaks. You decide not to freak out. You file it back to a nice shape and notice how much shorter it looks than the others. But it’s fine; you know it’ll grow.