I like to look at people’s skin. The way others might notice a man’s eyes, or the curve of a woman’s hip, I notice complexion and skin tone. It’s not the face I’m drawn to but the skin on forearms or around the collarbone, the wrinkles on knuckles — that’s real skin. For me, catching a glimpse of some hidden patch of skin is like seeing that person naked, like hearing his or her darkest secret.
I might know someone for a year or two before I see, really see, those spans of skin that absorb me, that tell me who this person is. Marie is a conventionally pretty woman with flawless, even-toned skin. It was two years before I noticed the little community of moles living on the side of her neck. They’d always been hidden by her beautiful blond hair. I suddenly felt as if I had glimpsed her deepest wound: each mole a hurtful disaster in her life. Another friend once revealed a large purple birthmark on his shin when he crossed his legs and his pant leg rose slightly. Immediately, he was an infant to me, a naked, helpless infant. I saw years of other children’s cruelty ahead for him. I had to look away.
