I’m not a particularly handsome man so when she fell for me I was more than surprised. Priscilla was beautiful, a honey blonde with green almond shaped eyes, with a slight tilt. Her cheek bones were perfectly sculpted. She was beautiful and I should have fallen in love with her forever, except for one thing.
Priscilla had no neck. I don’t mean that she had a short neck. She had no neck. Her chin was constantly chapped from rubbing on her chest. Her ear lobes touched her shoulders. When she turned her head she had to look up at a forty five degree angle. I never knew whether she had a collar bone.
Now, I am a tolerant man and possibly I could have overlooked this imperfection in, for example, a bald woman, or one of large proportions, but I could not bear this flaw in my otherwise perfect goddess. My eyes and thoughts kept returning to that one imperfection, as they would to a mustache on the Mona Lisa or a plaid jock strap on the David.
It all came to a head on her birthday when I thoughtlessly purchased a cameo suspended from a rather short gold chain. It is difficult to describe the painful conclusion to that evening. She looked up at me, something she shouldn’t have been able to do, and told me to leave. I turned once to see her strange silhouette running down the empty street.
I didn’t see her for five years; five years during which great strides were made in vertebrae transplants. Her chance at normalcy came when a donor, a former center for the Boston Celtics, died in a crash. We tried to rekindle that old feeling, even tried to neck, but it just wasn’t the same.
The evening came when she again told me to go, then bent down to kiss the top of my head.
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