A result of a bicycle accident, the scar on his left cheek flashes as he smiles at a certain angle. Did you know, he says, I was only ten, and the wound was left open for days, and an infection set in, and after a while my face just looked like a patchwork on the left side, held together by this ugly six inch scar. I laugh, imagining his mother going crazy at her youngest son never getting a bride through a nice arranged marriage. But wait, he stops me, I had surgery at fourteen and now you can hardly see it. It doesn’t even show when I have facial hair.
I suck in air, and watch him with bated breath, ignoring the urge to reach forward and stroke the scar that baited my heart.
It adds character to your face, I say instead.