She thought about him. Again. About how he had always told her that her face was perfectly geometrical, but towards the end, never looked her square in the eye. How her palm didn’t feel smooth and oval in his hand, but rough, like an uncut diamond. How his embrace didn’t go all the way around her, stopping short at a semi-circle. How his touches evoked a sense of sharpness, ones that reminded her of acute angles.
She wanted none of the geometry without the symmetry.
Then it began to rain with such a vengeance that it began hailing. She wondered if hailstones fell when clouds wept a little harder, more forcefully. She touched the tears on her own cheek and wondered, if humans cried the way clouds did during hailstorms, would lumps of salt trickle down?
Via Daily Prompt: None