Hers was a long face. Each tear itched her jaw farther down, dimples dissolved soon. Her long face was not to compare with ours. Ours were rotund, cheeky, you wanted to plant kisses if we met. When they weren't pink, they were gay. They had dimples, deep dimples.

Dimples and her face don't parse now. There are still lines but they are just lines. Dimples are holes. Holes aren't lines unless considered as travelling down, vertically. Her lines are stretching trenches, crevices—too shallow for cockroaches though. They bench themselves across the fore of her head, leaning like lame lepers hungry for more tours. Detours. How they like them.

These lame lepers soon disappear near her eyes like rivers that suddenly decide to go underground. They reappear under her eyes and carve bags for themselves. Then they're found standing guard on the sides of her nose. On some people, they look fine. On her, distasteful.

I've found that her lips always tremble.

But interestingly, I've come to adore her eyes just before tears trek down. The way they glitter like shreds of broken bottle catching the moonlight on a wet night. Sometimes I want to be close, check for my image because they look like mirrors. Then their water breaks and they crawl down, quite too steadily for a child; there are no pimples as there are no dimples.

Today she cries again. I open my lunch pack and hand out pancakes. She looks on like I'm both far and close same time. Her eyes do not stop to gleam because her tears do not stop to stream.

A smile. A light.

The lines appear again but I don't look away. I realize, 'cause we're seated next to each other that the trenches are adorable on her too.
She throws her arms around me. The pancake brushes the hair on my neck. And I start to feel her face cheek out on my neck.

I tell you, it's a happy feeling.

Truth is, I have enough pancakes for every sobbing one. And so do you. The question is, "Will you give them?"