You have a tiny pimple on your face. Really nothing at all. Just diagonally to the side of the crease of your lips. I notice there’s a freckle due North of it. That’s pleasing, I think. But I choose not to tell you, because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?

After lunch we’re taking the boat out to the islands. You are cradling your rucksack on your front like a kangaroo with a baby. The red plastic seats are covered in sea spray. You turn from gazing over the water. I can’t see your eyes, you’re wearing those reflective sunglasses. They’re all the rage at the moment. But that doesn’t matter to you. You turn to ask me about something. But I don’t listen, because at this point I notice the other two freckles, the mirror image of your freckle-pimple pair. A perfect square. It is compelling to me. You are geometry. You are truth, you are order. But I choose not to tell you. Because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?