Uma

First you called me Uma. (What does it mean, I do not know.) You held my hand in yours, you looked at me through your thick lenses, that make your eyes look like fish inside the glass, you started dribbling. You dribbled and dribbled for hours. Then you shaved your moustache. It was a thick dark moustache underneath your glasses. You shaved it and your jaw suddeny looked like a jawfish jawline. You cut your upper lip and the mark of blood looked like a beauty spot in a different place. I hated that spot. I knew it was not a real beauty spot, and that it would go away after a while, but I couldn’t help thinking, thank god I did not kiss you, thank god I did not press my lips against yours, against the beauty spot. Now, I think I would throw up if I had kissed you, I would throw up in advance or as an afterthought. I would throw up as an afterthought.

That spot, that spot, on the top of your lip, caused from your clumsy shaving caused me nausea. Your clumsy bloody shaving. You took off your glasses and you never talked to me again. Thank god I did not kiss you, thank god. Then your moustache grew back overnight.