She had chocolate on her upper lip - the part where it lined up neatly with the left edge of her nose and easily hid whenever she pronounced any syllable with a 'm'. It appeared to have been there for many years, unassuming and unobtrusive to the conversation. It had only been there for the last ten minutes, all from the first moment the warm glazed pottery met her lips.
She talked with a smile from her heart and with an untainted vigor from her eyes. Her hands moving in unison, orchestrating it all into one synergistic voice. She does not appear to know it.
I watched on, though discreetly so as not to stare and make obvious of the new flavoured lip gloss she has applied. My mouth on autopilot, making the required responses to keep the conversation going. She does not appear to know this either.
I felt selfish, and amused at my own sefishness. She is a doctor, probably will be a paediatrician. She will be a good paediatrician. I should probably inform the future paediatrician that she has some chocolate on her lips.
My conscience asked me to point to the opposite side of the lip, where it is prestine. She widened her eyes in disbelief and wiped not only that side, but also the other side... plus the entire lower lip with both of her hands.
It remained untouched, unsmeared and unaged.
Victory is mine.
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1 comment:
bahaha that was funny!! paediatricians are hot...
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