"Charles, darling," I said, coming into the conservatory, then stopping short in my tracks.
"What is it?," he remarked, lulled by the strains of unaccompanied Bach.
"Did anyone ever tell you...," I trailed off, inwardly cursing my unbridled tongue, my shocking lack of restraint.
"Did anyone ever tell me what?"
It was obvious his annoyance was thinly veiled...obvious to anyone but those who are lacking in restraint.
"It's just that...well, never mind."
"Is this about my uneven antennae?"
I pretended to examine my cuticles.
"What?! I never noticed!!"
There I went again: too loud, too incredulous. Was subtlety always to mock my inelegant ways?!
"Oh, really?," he said drily, "Then how come you refuse to look at me?"
Thus trapped, I was forced to make eye contact. Disaster. How many card games have turned the tide against me and my conscience-stricken face?!
"I knew it!," he exclaimed, pounding his raptorial forearm against the chaise.
"Charles," I pleaded, throwing myself at his four feet, "Pay no attention to my prattling! It's not like I'm a paragon of symmetry myself. Why, take a look at my fused jawbone!"
I opened my mouth and he grudgingly humored the request.
"Ew," he said, turning away.
"See what I mean, darling? I'm certainly no prize."
"Yes, well. We all have our little pecadillos, I suppose."
"Not to me, you don't. You're practically perfect, Charles Portis. Why, I look at you and feel like a girl in springtime."