I was at a friend's party when I saw a man who unmistakably had your chin. I stared at him from across the room in astonishment, but he took my surprise as an invitation. He approached me and asked my name. I was mesmerized by your chin on his face and after five minutes of idle chit chat found myself falling in love with him.
I knew it wasn't him, really—he was a banker who scoffed at my artistic endeavors. It was your chin—it jutted out, angular and strong, hypnotizing me until I didn't notice anything else. It was a power your chin had always had over me. I could spend hours staring at the dimple in the middle of it, or rubbing my nose on it affectionately in an attempt to let you know how much I loved you. I decided I couldn't ignore it on this man and so I asked him how he came about 'his' chin.
He told me, without shame, that he often searched the black market for body parts—he was always looking to improve himself, after all, and God had not blessed him naturally with a striking physique. He came across a man, once, who was down on his luck, unemployed, willing to trade or part with anything on his person for cash. I remembered your constant struggle to keep employment, despite your many talents—you never cared enough to stay in one place, or show up at all (if we're being honest). It was undesirable to employers and lovers alike.
This banker had been struck by the statuesque nature of your chin, the patterned perfection of your stubble. It was as if it were lifted from the statue of David itself! he told me in amazement, as he turned to his side to show the profile. He felt it emanated a raw power that he wished for himself. His own chin, he admitted, had been rather doughy, unpronounced and unable to grow a beard. So he had traded with you and paid you an extra fifty bucks for the honor to don your beautiful chin. It had since become one of his most prized possessions.
Fascinating, I said as I reached out with my knife and swiftly cut your chin from this hideous man's face. I saw his mouth open in astonishment, but did not hear his cry as he clutched at the jagged edge that bled below his lower lip. I left him kneeling on the floor. This man couldn't possibly understand the full perfection of your chin—he hadn't even noticed the small scar on the underside of it, which you had told me had been caused by your drunk father when you were five. My father threw a bottle at me and it broke against my chin you had told me. That's where I got this scar you had said as you pointed right where the chin turned in towards the neck. You had laughed a little as you pointed to it, as if this were a joke you were telling me and not the turning point of your entire existence. As if this wasn't the reason you were unable to keep a job or love me.
On you the chin had been slightly crooked so that you often smiled with only one side of your mouth. But this man had arranged it on himself to be perfectly symmetrical, lining the dimple up with the bump in his mouth so that a line down his face would have evenly divided his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and your chin. This proved that he did not understand your chin the way I did. This man did not understand beauty or power, not in the way I understood it on you. He did not deserve your masterful chin.
I took your chin home with me in a Ziploc bag of ice and brought it to bed. I placed it on the pillow next to me and stared all night long at it until I forgot everything else about you except your chin. It was separate from you now and so I would be allowed to be with it the way you never allowed me to be with you. This thought was exhilarating. I took your chin out of the bag and cradled it to my chest (almost forgetting how I had at times cradled your chin to my chest in a similar fashion when you had still been attached to it and how the rest of your body had felt wrapped around me in those moments). It was hard and slightly chilled from the ice, but it stayed there as long as I wanted and never stirred, never moved to leave. My heart beat faster and I realized that I was in love.