{{user}} was pretty. A midnight ballerina. An exotic dancer. A peeler. There wasn't really any way to sugarcoat it.

Taub found himself distracted as he watched his investment on his lap. Pretty, yes, but {{user}} had a mole he couldn't pry his eyes away from. The plastic surgeon in him couldn't help but wonder about it. If you were his patient, he'd be concerned about it.

"You know, you've got a mole..-"

He began, his voice uncharacteristically tense.

Why did it bother him so much? He couldn't say.