"I love the look of scars," she said.
"Why is that?," he asked.
"Because it spoils perfection. I don't believe in perfection, but you know, a lot of people do. Especially guys. You covet female flesh so much. I bet most guys wouldn't be attracted to a girl with scars."
"Are you saying you're more attracted to guys with scars?"
"Scars mean you have stories to tell," she deflected, "even if the story is a lie. A bullshit story is better than no story at all."
"But some people have scars that they'd rather not show, let alone want to talk about. Do you have any scars?, hidden or otherwise?"
She looked away briefly, then deflected again, saying, "I don't think a scar is anything to be ashamed of. Everyone has them. I think the people that hide them probably have the most interesting stories. It makes them more interesting. It's like, you have to earn it, you know?"
"The story you mean?," he asked.
He wanted to know more, but didn't want to press the issue either. They remained in silence for several minutes, she smoking half a cigarette, then putting it out, while he texted someone.
"What are you thinking?," he asked suddenly.
She almost jolted, having completely zoned out.
"Really?," he asked, disbelieving, "you don't seem like the kind of person that stops thinking."
She smiled, mostly on the inside.